


Every Song I Know

by fengirl88



Category: A Single Man (2009), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, First Time, Happy Ending, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:49:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Erik,” Janos says wearily, “you had amazing sex with this guy.  He obviously really likes you.  You have, what, a month, six weeks left?  You can spend it moping and hiding and worrying you're going to run into him.  Or you can call him, have a good time, and figure out where you go from there.”</p><p>Erik groans.  It's what he wants to do, so much it scares him.</p><p>[or, the one where Erik and Charles meet and fall in love as exchange students, break up, and meet again by chance seven years later]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: Astronomy Will Have To Be Revised (London and Cambridge, January-March 2004)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalypso](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Kalypso), [C_Gracewood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/C_Gracewood/gifts).



> I started writing this for the 2012 Secret Mutant exchange, but it took on a life of its own and couldn't be finished in time, so I wrote a different gift fic, [Years Falling Like Grains Of Sand](http://archiveofourown.org/works/587014), for Elsa instead, using the same prompt: "Non-powered AU where they meet as teenagers or young adults, fall in love, and had a falling out; seven years later they accidentally meet again." 
> 
> **Part I: Astronomy Will Have To Be Revised** deals with the first part of the prompt; the happy ending, in common with most of the characters mentioned in the tags apart from Erik and Charles, does not appear just yet...
> 
> It's no exaggeration to say that this fic would never have happened without the support of Kalypso, who helped me to see how the AU plot could work, and C_Gracewood, who betaed the whole thing. This version of the story is for them, with affection and gratitude.

**Chapter 1: A Splendid Butterfly**

 

Erik grins at the sight of the kids trying over and over again to grab the shining golden ball that pops up through a hole in the round table. Each time they get close, the ball disappears back into the hole, only to pop up again when they back off. They're never going to get it, but he can see why they get hooked on trying when it's so teasingly close.

“The control's in the ceiling,” a dark-haired young man is explaining to a kid who can't possibly be his son – he doesn't look old enough to be the boy's father. Maybe he's a teacher, though he looks young for that as well – he must be about Erik's age. 

He catches Erik's eye, and smiles at him. Erik smiles back, and sees a faint blush come up from the guy's collar to the tips of his ears. Well, _hello_. 

“Look what I found, mom!” the kid exclaims, rushing over to hug a pretty blonde woman in a white wool coat. “He told me how it works,” he says excitedly, pointing at the young man.

“Charles! I didn't expect to see you here,” the woman says. 

She's American; does that mean the guy is too? Erik would have guessed he was a Brit.

“I'm just down for the day,” Charles says. “I haven't been to the Science Museum for years and I couldn't resist it. Is this your son?”

“This is John, yes,” the woman says, watching the kid still lunging at the ball. “He doesn't give up easily.” Something in her voice suggests that she doesn't either.

“Come on, honey,” she says. “We have to go find Daddy.”

The kid protests, but you can tell he doesn't expect her to give in.

“Bye, Charles,” she says. “Have a good time.”

“You too,” Charles says. “Goodbye, Professor.”

He's a student, then. He looks the part, with his pea coat and long scarf.

Another group of children rush up and start jumping over the table, trying to grab the ball. Erik grins at Charles, who grins back.

“Hi,” Erik says.

“Hello,” Charles says.

“This is a great museum,” Erik says.

“First time here?” Charles says.

Erik nods. “First time in London.”

His stomach rumbles, embarrassingly loudly, and he looks at his watch. How did it get to be 2.30?

“Did you skip lunch too?” Charles asks.

“Just forgot to have any,” Erik says ruefully.

“Oh,” Charles says. He looks as if he's trying to make his mind up about something. Then he says “There's a Chinese place just near the Tube station, if you like Chinese food.”

“Sounds great,” Erik says. He hopes it won't be too expensive; a weekend in London is harder on the budget than he thought it would be, though the free museums are great.

“Excellent,” Charles says. “I'm ravenous.”

“I'm Erik,” Erik says, which makes Charles laugh.

“Nice to meet you, Erik.” He puts out his hand and Erik shakes it, laughing in turn at the formality. The touch lingers, feels like a promise of something more. From the look in Charles's eyes, Erik doesn't think that's just his imagination.

 

The Chinese place is good, and generous in its portions. Erik pushes away his almost empty plate  
with a contented sigh. 

He was surprised to learn that Charles comes from Westchester, N.Y.; apparently his mother's English and he spent a lot of time here visiting family when he was younger, which explains the accent. 

“My first time in London, I must have been John's age,” Charles says. “They couldn't drag me out of the Natural History Museum because of the dinosaurs, and then when they finally got me into the Science Museum I wanted to take the Orrery home – it's a kind of astronomical model –”

“Yeah, I know,” Erik says. He's willing to bet he knows quite a lot more about early astronomical models than Charles, but he doesn't say so. As usual, he hasn't really said much about himself at all. Maybe next time, if there is a next time –

Charles's phone goes off, and he grimaces. “Sorry, I need to take this. Hello?”

Whoever's at the other end of the line is obviously in a state, because he says “Oh love, I'm so sorry. Look, I'll talk to them. He can't get away with this... No, don't do that – come on, darling, we can find a way to sort this out. I promise. I'll talk to them and call you back, OK? OK.”

He disconnects the call and gets his wallet out, pulls a couple of bills out of it and slaps them on the counter.

“I'm so sorry, Erik, I have to go,” he says.

“Sure,” Erik says. He's about to ask for Charles's number but Charles is out of the door before he can say anything, leaving Erik staring at the money on the counter. 

 

*~*~*~*

 

Maybe it's that conversation about the Orrery at the Science Museum that prompts Erik to go to the Whipple Museum once he's finally settled in Cambridge and has unpacked his boxes. Adams's Grand Orrery in the Whipple isn't as pretty as the one Charles wanted to take home, though it shows all the known planets then, as far as Jupiter and Saturn, rather than just the Sun, Moon and Earth.

“There's a working model in the Discover gallery,” the young woman assistant says helpfully, gesturing to the door, though the museum's so small you can hardly get lost in it.

There is indeed; and standing in front of it, watching the moons spin around Saturn, is a familiar figure. 

“Hello,” Erik says. 

Charles looks briefly startled to see him, then delighted. “We can't go on meeting like this,” he says, laughing.

“Are you cruising the science museums of England?” Erik asks, and wants to kick himself right away. _Cruising_? Could you be any less subtle, Lehnsherr?

Charles goes a bit pink. “I'm on my lunch break; lectures this morning and a meeting with my dissertation supervisor this afternoon.” 

“You're studying here?” Erik says, incredulous at the coincidence.

Charles produces his Cambridge University card with a flourish. “Empirical proof, my sceptical friend,” he says. “I'm here on exchange from Princeton. If it comes to that, what are _you_ doing here?”

“I'm on exchange as well,” Erik says. “From Caltech.”

“You're kidding!” Charles says.

“Oh yeah?” He flashes his own ID card. 

“How wonderful!” Charles says. “I was hoping I'd see you again but I thought it was impossible.”

_You could have made it possible_ , Erik thinks. The disappointment of what happened last time they met is still sharp; he doesn't trust this guy.

“I'm sorry I had to run out on you like that,” Charles says. “My sister was having trouble at home and I had to make some calls.”

Erik's heart skips a beat; he'd been sure it was a boyfriend or just possibly a girlfriend Charles was talking to. _My sister_ sounds corny, but maybe it's true, just the same.

“You must have thought I was terribly rude,” Charles says. “Will you let me buy you coffee to make up for it?”

Will he hell. “No thanks,” Erik says, feeling a twist of anger at the memory of those two £20 notes slapped on the counter in the Chinese restaurant.

Charles looks as if he's just been slapped himself.

“Oh,” he says, disappointed. “Oh, I really did piss you off, didn't I? I'm very sorry.”

He looks so sad about it that Erik's resolve crumbles.

“We can have coffee,” he says, “but I'm paying. I still have your change from last time – you gave me way too much.”

Charles is obviously about to argue, but the look on Erik's face stops him. Instead, he says “Thank you, that would be lovely.”

 

The guy is a charmer, there's no doubt about it. In no time at all, he's got Erik practically eating out of his hand – and that's not a helpful image _at all_ , so Erik should just stop thinking about it _right now_...

“How long are you in Cambridge?” Erik asks.

“Till the summer,” Charles says, beaming. “What about you?”

“I go back mid-March,” Erik says, and Charles's face falls.

“That's a shame,” he says. “Cambridge has lots of fun things to do in May Week.”

“Oh well,” Erik says, “I'll just have to make the most of this term, won't I?” He drinks the last of his latte.

“Mm,” Charles says, brightening again. “Oh you've got some – do you mind if I – ” He swipes his thumb across Erik's top lip and says “Froth.”

What a tease, Erik thinks, as Charles licks the froth off his thumb and looks up at him from under those ridiculous eyelashes. All he needs is a t-shirt saying Fuck Me Now.

“Can I have your number?” Charles asks.

“Sure,” Erik says thickly. He clears his throat. “Thought you'd never ask.”

“I wanted to, I would have,” Charles says earnestly. “But I couldn't leave Raven like that.”

They tap their numbers into each other's phones, and then Charles looks at the time. 

“Oh shit – I've got to go! My supervision's at Homerton and it's _miles_ away.”

“OK,” Erik says.

“I'm really glad we ran into each other,” Charles says. “See you very soon, I hope.” 

He grins in a way that makes Erik's insides do a sort of flip, and then grabs his bag and dashes out of the coffee shop.

Erik doesn't hear from him for a week.

 

**Chapter 2: The Wild Thing With You**

 

By the time Charles finally calls, Erik's so furious with him, and with himself for getting his hopes up, that he almost bites the guy's head off.

“Sorry,” Charles says. “More trouble back home. I'm trying to get my mother and stepfather to see sense about Raven's future, but he's a real throwback. I don't think he believes women should be educated at all.”

“Shit,” Erik says.

“Raven's really smart,” Charles says. “She ought to be applying to Ivy League schools, but the way my father left his money she's dependent on my stepfather till she's twenty-one. I could help her out, but she says she wants what's hers. They fight a lot,” he adds gloomily.

The troubles of the rich, Erik thinks. Even with a scholarship, he's going to be paying off his student loans for years to come...

“Your stepdad sounds like an asshole,” he says, because that's easy to say.

“God, yes,” Charles says. “If it wasn't for Raven, I'd just clear out altogether.”

Not close to his mother either, then. Sounds like one hell of a family.

He's been lucky with his own parents, he knows that. He feels bad now for having snapped at Charles. “I'm sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Charles says, and there's a warmth in his voice that makes Erik feel funny inside again. Damn it, what is it about this man?

“Would you like to meet up?” he asks, half expecting Charles to make some excuse.

“I'd love to,” Charles says fervently. “How about a walk to Grantchester? We could go to the Orchard if it's open.”

Erik's not sure why you'd go to an orchard in January, but a walk by the river would be nice.

 

The Orchard turns out to be a tea place, and it's just closing; but the pub is open, and it's cold enough outside to make it fun to sit by the fire. Charles introduces him to some insane hot blackcurrant drink which is not as bad as it sounds, and they talk and talk, about Charles's dissertation on science fiction, and Erik's project on the history of alchemy. Erik even tells Charles about how Janos is making him a realization of Kepler's model of the solar system, the one Kepler designed for Duke Friedrich but that never got built because the silversmiths back then couldn't cope with it. 

“So this was a kind of celestial drinks cabinet?” Charles says, his eyes bright with interest.

“Yeah,” Erik says. “Different liquids for each of the planets. You'd be OK as long as you didn't get Saturn. They thought Saturn was the planet of decay, so the joke was that that one would be full of stale beer or sour wine.”

Charles grins. “You could call it the Alcoholic Solar System, or ASS for short,” he says, beaming, “and then people would say 'Have you seen Erik Lehnsherr's magnificent ASS? It's just out of this world!'”

Erik cracks up laughing in spite of himself. “God, your jokes are terrible.” 

“That was one of my better ones, actually,” Charles says, looking very pleased with himself. “Though it's only half a joke really.”

“Not even half,” Erik grumbles. “Wait – what?”

“You do have a magnificent ass,” Charles says, smirking. “As far as I can judge with your clothes on.”

OK, Erik had thought Charles was flirting with him, but this has gone beyond flirting now. 

“Don't start something you can't finish,” he says roughly. Heat pools in his stomach.

“I promise you,” Charles says, looking directly into his eyes, “I have every intention of finishing it.”

He puts his hand on Erik's thigh under the table and slides his fingers slowly along the inner seam of Erik's jeans. Erik nearly chokes on his blackcurrant drink.

 

Charles's rooms are closest, but the walk back is still torturously long. Erik's so hard it hurts, and his only consolation is that Charles is obviously in trouble as well, judging by his string of complaints about why Grantchester is so stupidly far from Cambridge. If it wasn't January and dark and starting to drizzle, he'd drag Charles into the bushes and suck him off right now. 

They're practically running as they cover the last few hundred yards to Charles's staircase. They stagger up the stairs, panting and laughing, and fall through the door.

“Lock the thing, will you!” Erik says, as Charles pushes him against the door.

“Mm,” Charles agrees, kissing his throat.

Erik groans, and bites his neck in return, making him gasp.

“OK, I – ah – just, shit, that's good – right, locked now, oh god _Erik_ –”

Nice to know Charles can't stay that coherent with Erik's hand down his jeans. His cock feels good in Erik's hand, too, hot and heavy and all the way hard, _fuck_ , so good...

Charles trembles and bites his own fist to keep from crying out as Erik works him and works him, stroking and sliding and pulling and twisting until he makes a choked desperate noise and comes all over Erik's hand and his own stomach. He grips Erik's shoulder bruisingly tight as his knees give way.

“God,” Charles says, when he can speak again. “Oh, god, Erik. Oh wow. Oh.”

Erik laughs, out of pure happiness. He can't remember the last time he felt like this, giddy with excitement and lust and delight, high on the thrill of making someone come so hard. But it's not just someone, it's this man with his amazing deep blue eyes and his mouth, god, that mouth...

“I want to suck you off,” Charles says, with such passionate conviction that Erik nearly buckles at the knees.

Charles pushes him back towards the bed and Erik tumbles onto it, flat on his back, dizzy with surrender as Charles pulls at his clothes, unzips his jeans and tugs them down along with his boxers.

“Oh,” Charles says, saucer-eyed. 

For a tense moment Erik thinks he's about to say _It's too big_ , but that's clearly not what Charles is thinking at all. He makes a happy little noise of appreciation and runs his tongue along the length of Erik's cock from base to tip.

Erik groans as Charles presses his tongue against the underside of the head, swirling and teasing at that spot that drives him wild.

“Fuck, Charles – ”

“Maybe later,” Charles says, laughing. He sucks the tip of Erik's cock into his mouth, tugging gently at it with his lips.

“Oh god,” Erik says. “Oh _god_.”

Charles's lips and tongue are teasing and caressing and pulling him in deeper. Erik's head is swimming and his eyes are glazed and he can't hold out much longer if Charles goes on sucking him like that, more, _more_... His hands are tangled in Charles's hair and pulling hard and Charles's hands are cupping his arse, pulling him in deeper into that gorgeous heat and wetness and suction till Erik can't bear it any longer and he comes and comes until there's nothing left of him any more. 

He slackens his grip on Charles's hair, gasping for breath.

“Your _mouth_ ,” he says, which is about as coherent a statement as he can manage right now.

Charles wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and grins.

“Your _hands_ ,” he says, and it's mocking but also genuine. “And of course your magnificent ass,” he says, which makes Erik snort with laughter, and then they're both laughing, collapsed in a heap on Charles's single bed.

There hasn't been much laughing in bed in Erik's life – not that they're actually _in_ bed yet. He thinks he'd like more of that. A lot more.

Charles slides up to rub his face against the corner of Erik's neck and shoulder, making a series of small contented noises. He sprawls across Erik as if he's done it all his life. Erik pushes his fingers through Charles's hair and scratches his scalp, strokes the back of his neck just below the hairline, listening to Charles's murmurs and sighs of pleasure, _mmm, lovely, oh yes..._.

The impulse to say _I love you_ shocks him rigid.

He is _not_ doing that. Not here. Not with someone he's probably never going to see again once they leave Cambridge.

“I have to go,” he says, feeling the panic rise up into his throat.

Charles snuggles closer and says “Noooo.”

Erik gives him a push that's probably not as gentle as he means it to be. 

“Charles. I have to go. _Now_.”

“Oh,” Charles says, sitting up. He looks dazed, as if he's been pulled too quickly out of sleep. “Oh, must you?”

“Yes,” Erik says. 

He doesn't want to go. He wants to stay here with Charles and fall asleep with him and wake up with him and say the things it doesn't make any sense to say. But he's not going to. He's going to wash his hands and put his clothes to rights and then he's going to walk back to St John's and read about Newton till his eyes hurt. Because he's not going to hand this man his heart on a plate to break or ignore or throw away.

“I – I had a really good time,” Charles says, and there's something almost pleading in his voice.

“Me too,” Erik says, because it wouldn't be fair to pretend he didn't. That was the best sex he's had in... possibly _ever_ , and he can't quite believe he's getting up and walking away from it. 

“Thank you for today,” Charles says. He looks uncertain and a bit sad, and Erik wants to hug him and kiss him and say stupid dangerous things to him.

“I'll call you,” he says instead, and gets out of there as fast as he can.

 

*~*~*~*

 

He doesn't call, not for days. He buries himself in the college library, goes to too many lectures he doesn't remember a word of despite his copious notes, sits up late into the night reading and drawing diagrams and trying not to think of Charles.

He Skypes Janos in California and talks about anything and everything else, but Janos knows him too well.

“Who is he, Erik?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Erik lies.

“You've met someone. _Fallen_ for someone,” Janos says. “Fuck, if I don't know the signs by now...”

Erik caves. It's a relief to talk about it – or at least it is until Janos says flatly “Call the guy.”

“Have you not been listening to a word I've said?” Erik says. “Janos, I can't do this, it's insane –”

“Erik,” Janos says wearily, “you had amazing sex with this guy. He obviously really likes you. You have, what, a month, six weeks left? You can spend it moping and hiding and worrying you're going to run into him. Or you can call him, have a good time, and figure out where you go from there.”

Erik groans. It's what he wants to do, so much it scares him. “Tell me about the model,” he says.

“Coward,” Janos says. “OK, four of the planets are now done. If you call the guy I'll make the other two. Deal?”

“Fuck off,” Erik says. “OK, deal.”

Janos's laughter comes loud and clear through his headphones.

 

**Chapter 3: Let's Pretend This Song Won't End**

 

“Erik!” Charles sounds so delighted that Erik feels slightly dizzy. “I was hoping you'd call. Listen, I have a spare ticket for the Magnetic Fields at the Corn Exchange tomorrow night – I thought maybe you'd like to go.” 

He'd seen the posters but hadn't tried to get a ticket – the exchange rate means his budget's even tighter than he thought.

“How much is it?” he asks.

“It's on me,” Charles says. “Please. I'd like to take you.”

Erik feels warm inside; then he feels uncomfortable.

“I prefer to pay my way,” he says, a bit stiffly.

“OK,” Charles says. “But I really would like to see you tomorrow, so if you don't want to go to the concert I'll pass the tickets on to someone else and we can go for a drink instead.”

“I – the concert would be nice,” Erik says. He feels pushed into a corner, even though it's where he wants to be.

 

The concert is better than nice, and they go back to Erik's rooms afterwards and fall into bed as if they're starving for each other, _dying_ for each other. This time Erik can't just get dressed and go; he's actually going to have to say something while they're still lying breathless and sweaty and mostly stuck together.

“I don't want to get involved,” he says, and feels Charles tense up.

There's a pause, and then Charles says “No, of course not.” 

It's a neutral remark but there's a sting in it somehow. Erik winces.

“Look, I really like you,” he says, knowing the words couldn't be more inadequate. “And the sex is great. But I'm going back to California, and you're going back to Princeton and I – I just don't think it makes sense to get serious.”

“OK,” Charles says, a bit too quickly for Erik's liking. “But we can still have sex, right?” he asks hopefully.

Erik's only human. “Yes, we can still have sex.”

“Oh good,” Charles says, fondling him suggestively. “I'd be sorry to say goodbye to this so soon.”

“I'll make you a cast of it,” Erik says drily. “To remember me by.”

Charles snorts with laughter. “I'll remember you anyway,” he says. “But that's a very nice offer. Could your friend at Caltech make me a dildo, do you think?”

Erik's not quite sure if he's joking, but he rolls Charles over and tickles him silly anyway. By the time Charles is flushed and gasping and begging for mercy, they're both half-hard again, and it's no distance at all from there to another round of insanely good sex.

 

“At least you're getting your ashes hauled,” Janos says. “Does he really want that dildo? I could make it if you like.”

“No you couldn't,” Erik says firmly.

 

*~*~*~*

 

The weeks go by too quickly, full of sex with Charles and work half-done and walks and concerts and more sex. He doesn't want it to end, and the longer it goes on the more it's killing him not to say the words that keep pushing up into his throat. But he won't let them out, not here. Not even when the smell of Charles's skin makes Erik want to bottle it and wear it as a cologne for the rest of his goddamned life. Not even when the sound of Charles's heartbeat after sex becomes the rhythm of Erik's dreams.

Charles agreed so readily when he said he didn't want to get serious: he's obviously happy just having great sex as long as it lasts. And if Erik wasn't acting like a twelve-year-old girl he could be happy with that too. At least he can pretend he's OK. He can totally do that. 

It's not for much longer, after all.

Week 6. Week 7. Week 8 – how the fuck did it get to be week 8 already? Why are the fucking terms so short? 

Pretty soon, too soon, he's cursing all the stuff that won't go in his suitcases even after he's filled up all the boxes he's shipping back to California.

Charles sits on the edge of the bed and watches him, not smiling for once. He seems to have something on his mind.

“Fuck,” Erik says, for possibly the fiftieth time.

“Erik,” Charles says, and stops.

“What?” Erik snaps.

“Nothing,” Charles says. “Are you sure I can't help you with that?”

Erik counts to ten, because he's _this_ close to lashing out just to stop it hurting so much. “No thanks,” he says, clenching his fists.

“I can go, if I'm in the way,” Charles says.

“Fine,” Erik says. “Whatever you want – ”

“What I want is for you not to be going away,” Charles says mournfully.

“Yeah, thanks,” Erik says. “That's a big help.”

“Look, I had an idea,” Charles says. “Why don't you go back later, stay with me in London over the vacation? My uncle's away, we could use his flat. You could work on your project during the day and we could hang out in the evenings. It'd be fun.”

It's too much. 

“How am I supposed to do that, Charles?” Erik explodes. “Just – fucking _how_? My flight's on Saturday. I can't afford to change the ticket.”

“I – I'd be happy to pay the difference,” Charles says. He clears his throat, embarrassed. “If you wanted to stay.” 

“You would – _what_?” He doesn't believe he's hearing this. 

“I – just, I'd really like to have more time with you,” Charles says. “Doing things we like, and I thought – ”

Erik's shaking; he can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “What the fuck is this, Charles? You want to _pay_ to keep me around so we can _do things we like_ – what does that make me?”

“That's not what I meant,” Charles protests. He looks as if he's going to be sick.

“I can't believe you thought I'd say yes to this!” Erik rages. He feels the shame of it bleaching through him till he can hardly breathe. “I'm not your, your escort or your gigolo or your fucking charity case.”

“I never thought of you like that,” Charles says, very pale. “But I apologise if I've offended you.”

“Get out,” Erik says. He's so angry he can hardly see straight.

“Erik – ”

“Get _out_!” Erik yells, and lunges at him.

Charles steps backwards. He's gone even paler, if that's possible.

“OK,” he says, his voice shaking. “I'm going, you don't have to throw me out. I'm sorry it has to end like this. I won't bother you again.”

He walks out, shutting the door quietly behind him, and Erik slumps on the floor, contemplating his half-packed suitcases and the pieces of his broken heart.

He doesn't see or hear from Charles again for the next seven years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All titles from Magnetic Fields song lyrics; the main title comes from Busby Berkeley Dreams and the title of Part I from I Don't Believe In The Sun; ch. 1 from All My Little Words; ch. 2 from Come Back From San Francisco; ch. 3 from Nothing Matters When We're Dancing.
> 
> The planetary model Charles fell in love with as a child is [John Rowley's orrery](http://www.sciencemuseum.org.uk/images/I002/10197368.aspx). The Grand Orrery in the Whipple Museum can be seen [here](http://www.hps.cam.ac.uk/whipple/explore/astronomy/thegrandorrery/).
> 
> The Magnetic Fields did play the Cambridge Corn Exchange in 2004, though not until October.


	2. Part II: You Must Be Out Of Your Mind (Princeton, October 2011)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seven years. Seven years of nothing, no contact between them, of steadfastly refusing to Google “Erik Lehnsherr”, because it was better not to know. Refusing to remind himself of what he’d lost, through his own clumsiness and stupidity. Ironic, because if he’d known Erik was here he probably wouldn’t have taken the job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ginbitch for useful conversations about the history of science, and in particular for introducing me to the story of Kepler's model and its uses.
> 
> This part has multiple points of view. It also has spoilers for _A Single Man_. 
> 
> Author chooses not to use archive warnings; there is an optional warning for this part at the start of the additional notes.

**Chapter 4: Like An Appendectomy, Sans Anaesthesia**

 

_X Marks The Spot: Charles F. Xavier '05 On Sci-Fi, Superheroes And Coming Home_

The picture underneath the headline is Charles at his most infuriating, wearing that smirk that always did make Erik want to slap him. Slap him, or bite the smirk off his lips and _that really is an unsuitable thought to be having in office hours_ –

“Fuck,” Erik says.

There's no reason not to say it out loud. One advantage of having a reputation like his, the students aren't going to come knocking at his open door unless it's a dire emergency, and on the whole there aren't that many dire emergencies in Early Modern Science. Erik can pretty much count on his office hours as research time in a way most of his colleagues in HistSci can only envy.

Which makes it particularly infuriating that he's been staring at the same web page for the last ten minutes at least, with no idea what the interview actually says.

Of course the Daily Princetonian would run a piece about Charles. They hadn't bothered to do one on _him_ when he took up post last year, but then Erik wasn't an alumnus.

“Coming Home”: the arrogance is typical of the man, Erik thinks, even though part of him knows Charles might not actually have said that, or meant it the way it sounds.

It's easier to think of Charles as an entitled asshole, as the spoiled rich kid who thought he could solve anything by throwing money at it. Easier not to let himself remember the ways Charles wasn't like that – 

_Charles in his bed laughing and panting and arching up to meet him thrust for thrust, Charles stammering with excitement about a poem he'd just read or a concert or a film they'd been to together, Charles putting a handful of snow down his neck and yelping when Erik retaliated, Charles undressing him and kissing him all over, pinning him down on the hearthrug and taking him slowly apart with his mouth and his hands_...

“Fuck,” Erik says again. “Fuck. _Fuck_.”

“Hey, Lehnsherr, what's up?” 

He turns round to see Logan leaning against the doorframe. This is turning into a great afternoon.

“Fuck off, Logan.”

“You don't want people walking in on your private browsing, shut the door,” Logan says, coming to sit on the edge of Erik's desk.

“I'm having office hours,” Erik says. “As you know.”

Logan grins his wolfish grin. “Yeah, I can see that. Must be a slow day if you're reading the Prince.”

“Can you believe they hired someone who does _sci-fi and superheroes_?” Erik says, with as much contempt as he can muster. 

“Yeah, the interview makes his research sound like crap,” Logan says, “but the guy's smart as well as cute. Always was. That's not a great picture of him.”

Erik just manages to stop himself from saying _I know_. The last thing he needs is the whole department finding out he and Charles F. Xavier '05 used to be lovers. He'd never live it down.

“Did you teach him as an undergrad?” he asks. 

“No,” Logan says, and grins. “Just as well.”

Erik's stomach knots with jealousy, which is completely inappropriate and stupid and he is going to stop it right this minute –

Logan looks at him for a long moment and then whistles. “No,” he says. “I did not fuck Professor X. Sounds like a deleted scene from _The Cat In The Hat_ : This guy and I did not have sex, I did not fuck Professor X, I did not fuck him in a chair, I did not fuck him anywhere.”

Erik bares his teeth. He's not sure it quite passes as a smile.

“Look,” Logan says, “I don't do that with students. Ever. So you can take off that judging face now. All I meant was, he was notorious back then for being a smartass as well as smart, and I'd have wanted to slap him. Which, for the record, I also don't do.”

“Oh.” Erik feels hot with embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“That's OK,” Logan says. He pushes the Kepler model and makes it spin. “What _is_ this thing, anyway?”

Charles's laughter echoes in his head: _You could call it the Alcoholic Solar System ... and then people would say have you seen Erik Lehnsherr's magnificent ASS? It's out of this world!_

“It's an astronomical model,” he says, though he wants to snap _Don't touch that!_ “Designed by Johannes Kepler. It holds different kinds of alcohol.”

Logan snorts. “Don't let the Dean hear you're keeping liquor in your office.” 

“It's empty,” Erik says.

“Yeah, I assumed,” Logan says. “Hey, it's six o'clock. Office hours are over. Want to get a beer?”

“No thanks,” Erik says stiffly. He knows it's meant to be a goodwill gesture. “Thank you.”

“OK,” Logan says, getting up to go. “Some other time.”

“Yeah,” Erik says, not meaning it. He closes the tab on his browser and opens up the PDF file of his Kepler article proofs.

 _Work is a great comfort_ , his grandmother used to say. He never asked what she'd needed comforting for, and he doesn't know why he should think of that now. 

Because yes, it's annoying that he and Charles are part of the same institution again, that they're going to be just across the campus from each other. Annoying and a bit awkward. But after seven years, there's no way it's going to be any more than that.

 

**Chapter 5: Genius Enough To Be A Fool**

 

He's there again: hanging around outside George's door for what must be the third time this week. Tall, gangly, familiar and strange: the boy Raven's still getting used to thinking of as Hank's baby brother, rather than as the cute guy from her TA section on George's course.

“Hi, Kenny,” she says. “Looking for someone?”

He blushes, looking so like Hank that she feels vaguely uncomfortable.

“Is Prof Falconer in?” he asks.

“I think he's gone for the day,” Raven says. “He said something about a dinner date with an old friend.”

“Oh,” Kenny says, disappointed. 

“You might catch him in the parking lot,” she says, looking at her watch.

He brightens. “Thanks, Ms Darkholme – I mean, Raven.”

Most of the other kids call her Raven by now anyway, and they don't have his excuse. Maybe her being Hank's girlfriend makes him feel more awkward rather than less; she's taken a while to adjust to their new relationship herself. It's still early days.

Her phone buzzes; it's Charles.

“Hi, genius,” she says. “How're you doing?”

“I just shelved the last box of books,” he says. “Do you want to come round?”

“OK,” she says. It's been a while, and she could do with a break from work.

 

Charles's apartment looks like every other place he's ever lived: floor to ceiling bookcases crammed to overflowing; the big desk with his laptop and a small pile of brightly coloured notebooks and the five books he's currently reading; the familiar paintings hanging on the walls; the well-stocked liquor cabinet; the flatscreen TV for watching DVDs. Nobody but her brother could have lucked into a tenure-track job at Princeton where he gets to read comics and watch superhero movies and call it research.

“You finally got unpacked,” she says. “I should have brought champagne. It's taken you, what, three weeks?”

“Four,” Charles says, grinning, “and I have champagne if you want some. I even have stuff for dinner, if you want to stay.”

“Tempting,” Raven says, “especially with your cooking. But I have to work on my chapter.”

“OK,” Charles says. “I should probably be writing my lecture anyway.”

“So how was class?” she asks, getting herself a beer from the fridge.

“Terrifying as usual,” Charles says. “I don't think I'll ever get the hang of this.” 

“That's not what I heard,” Raven says, and grins.

“Really? Don't tease, Raven, this is serious.”

She's not teasing. “I heard a bunch of kids in Chancellor Green this afternoon talking about your lecture. They think you're cool.”

He looks gratified, but says “It's just the subject matter.”

Raven sighs. “I never thought I'd live to say this, but I liked you better when you were smug and thought you knew everything.” 

Charles throws a cushion at her. It misses, knocking an Iron Man action figure onto the floor.

“Seriously, they loved you,” she says. “They said normally it's just gross and embarrassing when profs talk about popular culture, but they think you're groovy.”

Charles groans theatrically and buries his face in his hands.

“Have another drink,” Raven suggests. “And lighten up, for pity's sake. I have to start applying for jobs next year and you're scaring me.”

He looks up at her and his expression clears. “You'll be fine,” he says fondly. “You're so smart and funny and good. Everyone's going to love you.”

“Yeah, right,” she says. “If I ever manage to write this fucking dissertation.”

“Bad day in the Firestone?” he asks sympathetically.

“I can't get the transition right,” she says, frowning. 

“Want me to take a look?” he asks.

It's tempting; that last advisory session with Shaw knocked her confidence so badly she couldn't write for a month. If she doesn't come up with the goods next time he's going to rip her to shreds. Not for the first time, she wishes George was her main advisor; working for him is so much easier.

“I don't think I should get my big brother to do my homework,” she says, and Charles laughs and pats the couch next to him.

“Come on,” he says. “You can read it to me.”

“Ugh,” Raven says, though she knows he's right about reading aloud. She flops onto the couch and gets out her laptop. “It's the Actaeon section,” she says. “I'm starting with that bit in _Twelfth Night_ , Orsino saying _That instant was I changed into a hart, / And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, /E'er since pursue me._ ”

Charles shivers. “Oh, I love that speech,” he says. “Always makes my hair stand on end.”

Raven thinks again about those bits of his life he's never shared with her. The last six years when he was in Oxford, doing his D.Phil. and then being a Research Fellow, they'd barely seen each other, and even now he hardly ever talks about anything but work. He always seems to have a date when he wants one, but there's nobody serious in his life as far as she knows. It's true, a lot of guys his age don't want to settle down. But he used to believe in true love and forever, and she wonders if he just grew out of it or if something happened to change him.

“So,” he says, putting his arm around her shoulders, “where do you go from there?”

She pulls herself back to the here and now and begins to read, hearing the flaws in her sentences but also how sometimes they come together and make something special, something unique. Hearing her words as he listens to them, she begins to believe she can do this.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Erik Lehnsherr may _literally_ be the rudest man Raven's ever met. 

Of course she'd been curious about him – couldn't help it, after nearly a month of Hank going on about Professor Lehnsherr's amazing lectures and the crazy model of Kepler's solar system that he keeps in his office. But she hadn't expected to meet him – it's not even as if Hank's his TA or anything. 

God knows why Hank thought it would be a good idea for them to have coffee together in the first place; except that apparently he wants _everyone_ to know Raven's his girlfriend. Which is embarrassing, but also oddly touching – she's never had a boyfriend before who so obviously thought she was way out of his league and can't believe his luck at getting her. 

Lehnsherr's insanely hot, which is about the only fun part of the whole thing. But there's only so long you can look at a guy and ignore the crap he's coming out with. Raven knows lots of science types are one-eyed about the humanities. She's had plenty of arguments about that in the dining hall and the D-bar, but this is something else. This feels _personal_. 

Lehnsherr bristles with contempt when he hears what she's working on: “What the world really needs, another Ph.D. on Ovid's Metamorphoses.”

“Right, and you're doing, what? The history of alchemy. Cutting-edge stuff,” she snipes back.

“The history of science is important,” Hank says defensively. “But Ovid's good too.”

Lehnsherr gives him a look Raven mentally translates as _pussy-whipped_. “Well, I guess it's better than some of the crap they teach over in Comp Lit and English,” he says. “Can you believe they actually hired some asshole who works on comics?”

Raven's blood boils. “For your information, that asshole is my brother,” she snaps. “And his work is a million times smarter than you could ever understand, because you are clearly just a prejudiced dumbass jerk.”

“Your _brother_?” Lehnsherr says. He looks stunned, which seems a bit of an overreaction.

“Yeah,” Raven says, “what about it?”

“You don't look anything like him,” Lehnsherr says accusingly. “You don't even have the same surname.”

“I'm adopted,” Raven says. “Happy now?”

“Sorry,” Lehnsherr mutters.

Raven gets the feeling it's been a long time since he last used _that_ word. She wonders briefly how he knows what Charles looks like, and then she remembers Charles had a profile in the Daily Princetonian last week.

“Just so you know,” Lehnsherr says, “I still think working on comics is fucking stupid.” He drains his coffee-cup and pushes his chair back, scraping it across the floor. “See you round, McCoy. Ms Darkholme.”

“Jesus,” Raven says, when he's out of sight. “Who pissed in his Cheerios?”

“I don't know,” Hank says bewildered. “He's sometimes grouchy, but not like that.”

“Obviously he really, really needs to get laid,” Raven says. “Preferably by someone in Comp Lit or English. That would serve him right.”

Hank looks taken aback, almost shocked. Then he laughs and says “Maybe we should matchmake him with Pr – with Charles.” He's still getting used to calling Charles by his first name.

“You are kidding, right?” Raven says, rolling her eyes.

“Why not?” Hank says. “You keep saying what a waste it is that he's unattached – ”

Raven groans at the thought of it. “It'd be a train wreck.”

“No, you're right, of course,” Hank says thoughtfully. “Nobody could make that work.”

He knows her too well; of course she can't turn down a challenge like that.

“OK,” she says. “You bring Lehnsherr to the Dean's cocktail party on Friday and I'll bring Charles, and we'll see what happens.”

 

*~*~*~*

 

What happens is that it's a total fucking disaster. Lehnsherr is as rude to Charles's face about Comp Lit and comic books as he was behind his back. And Charles, uncharacteristically for him, snarks right back and starts telling funny stories about the history of science. Raven had no idea he even _knew_ that stuff.

It's fascinating as well as hilarious – she can see why the undergrads like his classes. Even Hank and Armando interrupt their usual Darwin-off ( _obviously_ Charles Darwin is more important than Erasmus Darwin, but Armando just doesn't know when he's beaten) and join the rapidly growing crowd around Charles and Lehnsherr.

“Seriously, this guy Wharton thought he was going to get off with the queen of the fairies?” Hank says, wide-eyed with disbelief.

“Absolutely,” Charles says. “And the con-woman kept coming up with the most amazing excuses – like that the fairy queen couldn't keep their date because she'd got her period.”

“Nooo!” Raven puts her head in her hands.

“Jesus, what an idiot,” Angel says. 

“Alchemists,” Charles says, grinning. “No scheme too crazy for them to swallow. But what do you expect from people who seriously thought they could turn base metal into gold?”

“Or that all the other metals would be gold, _if they had time_ ,” Armando says.

“You stole that from Ben Jonson,” Raven says, and Armando laughs and puts his hands up. They'd done _The Alchemist_ in Professor Wilson's drama course last year.

Lehnsherr is seriously riled now. “Just because some believers in alchemy were fools doesn't make the subject a waste of time,” he says. “Unlike studying popcorn movies and, and whatever the hell else it is you do.”

“I did my D.Phil. on science fiction,” Charles says cheerfully. “Now I'm working on the uses of science in popular culture.”

“You call that science?” Lehnsherr fumes. He looks like he's about to burst his shirt buttons and turn into a big green rage-monster. “Pointless, childish daydreaming.”

“Maybe you should let yourself daydream now and then,” Charles says. “It might make you happier.”

Lehnsherr snaps that he's perfectly fine, thank you so much for asking, and stomps off to the bar for another martini.

There's an awkward silence.

“So, Angel,” Charles says, obviously making an effort, “tell me more about the love song of the fruit fly.”

 

“Well, that was a roaring success,” Raven says to Hank as they undress together.

“Should we give up?” Hank asks, massaging her shoulders where she's all knotted and tense.

“Mm, good hands... No, I'm not giving up,” she says. “We'll just have to try something else.”

She's almost asleep when it hits her.

“Got it!” She sits up, knocking the alarm clock to the floor in her excitement. “Much Ado!”

“Wha'?” Hank says drowsily.

“Much Ado About Nothing,” Raven says. “You know.”

Hank, as it turns out, doesn't know, even once he's properly awake.

“OK,” Raven says. “So there's this guy and this woman who supposedly hate each other, always fighting and snarking, and their friends decide to get them together.”

“How?” 

“They make each of them think the other one's in love with them,” she says. “They don't tell them right out, but they make it so Beatrice and Benedick each overhear them talking about it.”

“Huh,” Hank says. He still sounds sceptical. “Oh. Well, I guess if you wanted to do that you could use the acoustics lab – I can hook the sound up so it feeds into Lehnsherr's office.”

“Great idea!” Raven says. “I'm not sure what we do about Charles, though.”

Hank thinks for a bit and then says “ _Carrels._ ”

“How would that – oh, wait, I see!” Raven says. “Have I told you lately you're a genius?”

She clambers on top of him and kisses him till he growls and pulls her closer.

 

 

**Chapter 6: You Forget We're Not Made Of Wood**

 

 _What's taking you so long, Raven?_ Charles wonders, staring at the conference poster on the carrel wall. It's years since he's been in one of these, and he'd forgotten the mild sense of claustrophobia he gets from being in the metal box.

He still remembers the thrill of being in senior year and getting a carrel for the first time. He and Moira had shared it, mostly amicably. Made out in it, too, just the once, before they realized that was a really bad idea. The news was all round campus by dinnertime, and it took months for the story to die down. So much for soundproofing.

Raven's left the door ajar, which he's glad about. She could easily have brought him whatever it is she wants to show him, rather than dragging him all the way down here; but she'd said she needed rescuing from her conference paper before she started banging her head against the walls. He knows how that one goes: he's been working so hard the last couple of months that he can't remember when he last took a break.

This thing with Hank seems to be making her happy, which is good. She was a pain about the joys of pair-bonding when it started, but she finally seems to have stopped telling him he ought to find someone to settle down with, thank goodness. He never told her about him and Erik and he's not about to do that now. He doesn't want her or anyone else feeling sorry for him...

 

Seven years. Seven years of nothing, no contact between them, of steadfastly refusing to Google “Erik Lehnsherr”, because it was better not to know. Refusing to remind himself of what he'd lost, through his own clumsiness and stupidity. Ironic, because if he'd known Erik was here he probably wouldn't have taken the job. 

And then to meet again like that, surrounded by their colleagues and students in the Faculty cocktail lounge... 

He could hardly take in what Raven said when she introduced them, his mind too full of _that's a new suit how would you know so formal he looks like a stranger well that's what he is now still so fucking hot though it's just not fair shit he looks older of course he does seven years jesus seven years_.

He hadn't meant to let Erik's contempt for his research rile him but he couldn't help it. So he'd started in on Goodwin Wharton and the gullibility of alchemists, let himself mock Erik's subject in front of the grad students. Easy enough to do, but he'd felt bad about it afterwards.

That sort of attack on his subject always makes him come out fighting. Natural cussedness got him through three years of the D.Phil. on science fiction, battling his supervisor's scepticism, then three more years of his Oxford research fellowship, parrying jocularly rude remarks at High Table from both sides of the arts-sciences divide. Erik's attack was nothing special in comparison with what he'd had to deal with from some of those old farts.

Where the hell has Raven got to? He'd text her, but he knows his phone doesn't work down here.

“Look, I'm telling you it's true!” 

He recognizes the voice, though it takes him a minute to place it – that dopey-looking second year in Celtic Studies, the one who works on banshees, what's his name, Sean, that's it – 

“Man, you are full of it.” Armando's voice, coming from next door. Charles hadn't realized he and Raven were carrel neighbours. “Everyone knows Lehnsherr's practically a monk. Men, women, you name it, he's not into it.”

“It's true,” Sean protests. “Alex told me he heard Lehnsherr telling Professor Logan he'd rip Logan's liver out if he said anything to anyone.”

“That sounds like him,” Armando says grudgingly. “But – _Xavier_? You saw how they were at the party. No way.”

“Way, dude,” Sean says. “Logan didn't believe it either, Alex said. Told Lehnsherr he was wasting his time, Xavier likes to fuck but he doesn't do relationships.”

“Yeah, like Logan would know about that,” Armando says. “What did Lehnsherr say?”

“Said he knows that already but he just can't help the way he feels,” Sean says.

“Shit,” Armando says. “Poor guy. OK, he's an asshole, but you have to feel sorry for him. Unrequited love really sucks.”

“I bet Xavier wouldn't feel sorry for him,” Sean says, with more than a touch of _schadenfreude_. “He'd probably just tell Lehnsherr to go fuck himself.”

Charles is just about to emerge from the carrel and say _Let's stop this before it gets really embarrassing, shall we?_ when he's forestalled by another voice: female, British and furious.

“Would you please keep the noise down? Some of us are trying to study here, if you don't mind. In case it's escaped your notice, this is actually a library.”

Oh god, it's Malvolia Stuart, Charles thinks. The Procter Fellow. She's pissed off about things half the time as it is, not always for good reasons, but he's with her on this one.

Sean and Armando mutter apologies and slope off, presumably with their tails between their legs. 

Since the only thing that could actually make this worse would be having Mal Stuart find out he's been listening all the time, Charles sits down again to wait for Raven. He's got a bone to pick with her.

“Sorry,” Raven says, when she appears. “I couldn't find the – the thing... Charles, are you OK?”

“I'm fine,” he says, not caring whether she believes him or not. “But I'm also really busy and I haven't got time for practical jokes.”

“What are you talking about?” she says, though she obviously knows.

“The first time I saw Much Ado was when I was thirteen,” he says. “Seriously, Raven, did you really think I was going to fall for that?”

“Sorry,” she says, looking very uncomfortable. “Don't be mad at me, Charles, it was just a bit of fun.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Nice try, but no cigar. If I ever get hooked up with Erik Lehnsherr I give you my full permission to spray paint Charles Loves Erik on my office door. In bright pink, with a heart round it.”

“If you get hooked up with him after this, that's the least I'll do, believe me,” she says with a grin. “He's hot, though, isn't he? Even if he is a total prick.”

“Oh yes,” Charles says. “He's hot all right. But I can promise you nothing's going to happen between us.”

“I'm sorry, Charles,”she says, sounding abashed.

“It's OK,” he says, though it really isn't. “But I'm going back to work now.”

All those years painstakingly rebuilding his life, till he'd begun to think he was OK. It's hard enough knowing Erik is just across the campus, so close and yet so far. To have Raven and her immature friends trying to fix the two of them up for a joke is too much to bear.

Work's usually the cure for everything that ails him and he throws himself into it with renewed fervour: grant proposals, the new book, course design. Anything to forget there ever was a time in Cambridge when he fell head over heels in love with Erik Lehnsherr.

 

And when even work won't fix it, there's only one answer left: he heads for the city, gets roaring drunk, and picks up some guy in a bar. An advertising exec who looks way too much like Erik for comfort, who fucks him as if he hates sex or himself or maybe both, then practically throws Charles out of his sterile apartment the minute they're done.

Heading back to Princeton on the first train of the day after spending hours in a grim all-night coffee-shop near Penn Station, aching with tiredness and desperate for a long hot shower, Charles wonders what the hell life is going to throw at him next. 

 

**Chapter 7: The Birds Are Bruises In The Dawn**

 

Erik stretches and yawns – it's just gone 5.30 a.m. and it's still dark, but he's wide awake. Which is seriously annoying, when it's Saturday _and_ the start of midterm recess. 

Annoying, but not surprising: his mind's been all over the place since yesterday afternoon. He was lying awake for hours last night fizzing with nervous agitation, wondering when he'd see Charles again, what to say, what to do. Wondering what Charles would say and do. 

 

Yesterday afternoon in his office, seeing Hank and Raven on the live feed from the acoustics lab, he'd been about to call _Hey, McCoy, you left the mike on_ , until he'd heard what they were talking about. 

“Look, I know you think Lehnsherr's a great guy but he acts like a shit,” Raven said. “I'm worried sick about Charles. Not that he ever listens to me.”

Hearing his own name and Charles's linked in that way gave Erik such a jolt he nearly fell off his chair. 

“Erik's not that bad,” Hank said defensively. “You just caught him on a bad day.”

“Yeah,” Raven scoffed, “I caught him on a bad day, _twice_. And the second time he was acting like an asshole to my brother. About _nothing_.”

“I don't know why he gets so mad about science fiction,” Hank said unhappily. “Lots of people in HistSci like it, but they're scared to admit it around him.”

“Yeah, well,” she said. “Really not my problem. My problem is Charles. Who for some insane reason seems to have fallen hard for someone who thinks he's a waste of space.”

“I'm sure he doesn't really think that about Prof – your brother,” Hank said.

“You're allowed to call him Charles, you know?” she said, grinning. “You're practically family now.”

Erik looked away from the kiss, wincing; some things really are private.

“Charles, then,” Hank said, rather breathlessly. “If Erik knew how he felt – ”

“Seriously?” she said. “He'd rip him to shreds. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy. Can you imagine?”

Hank looked shaken. “Oh,” he said.

“Yes, _oh_. I think Charles needs his fucking head examined. If I have to listen to any more of his drunken maunderings about wanting to find a house with a white picket fence and live happily ever after, Jesus. Next thing he'll be wanting to have the guy's _babies_...”

If Erik hadn't already been sitting down, he'd have fallen down.

“I told him I couldn't believe he'd be so stupid,” Raven went on, “and you know what he said? _I know I don't have a chance with him, I know it's crazy but I can't help it. I've never loved anyone the way I love him, and I never will._ ”

Erik switched the feed off, his hands shaking. He'd heard more than enough.

He sat staring at the blank screen for a long time. Wondering if he'd been wrong about Charles all along. 

Thinking of those seven years apart was too much to bear, if it had all been a stupid misunderstanding. If Charles had always felt that way why hadn't he said so? But that wasn't fair – he hadn't told Charles how he felt either... 

 

He pulls on a t-shirt and sweatpants and goes out onto the verandah to sniff the cold pre-dawn air. Sometimes getting cold enough that he longs for the warmth of bed can trick his body into falling asleep again, even when it's his mind that's stopping him from sleeping. 

Sooner or later he'll have to find an apartment of his own, but for now it suits him to rent the bottom floor of the house on Alexander Street. It's right up the hill from the station, handy for those nights when he gets back late from New York.

Late is a relative term, of course – there's someone trudging up the hill from the first Dinky of the day.

That familiar walk makes Erik's heart beat faster, much to his annoyance. 

“Charles,” he calls. 

Charles looks up, dazed. Deep in thought, or maybe just bone-tired.

“Oh, hi,” he says.

He looks shattered, as if he's been through some sort of ordeal.

“I was just going to make coffee,” Erik says. “Like to join me?”

“Oh!” Charles says, as if it's the last thing he expected to hear. 

Maybe it is, given what happened last time they met. Erik surprised himself with the offer.

“You look like you could do with it,” he says.

Charles winces. “Yes, I expect I do. I was in New York last night, only just got back – sorry, that's obvious, isn't it?”

He _must_ be tired: it's not like him to babble.

“Would you like to come in?” Erik asks again.

“It's very kind of you,” Charles says, and the warmth in his voice makes something unfold in Erik's chest. “But I've been up since this time yesterday and I really need to go and lie down.”

Erik can hardly invite him to do that. Even if he'd like to.

“OK,” he says. “Coffee some other time, maybe?”

Charles looks at him so hopefully, so doubtfully that Erik's heart contracts. 

“Some other time would be – nice. Thank you, Erik.”

“Sleep well,” Erik says.

Charles smiles up at him. “You know, I think I will.”

If it wasn't for the physical distance between them now, Erik would risk a hug. It's probably just as well he can't.

“See you round,” he says, and Charles waves goodbye and heads up the hill towards the campus.

Erik goes inside and puts the coffee-maker on. He feels slightly giddy and more than slightly confused.

He hasn't seen that smile for a very long time. It's not the smug arrogant look that makes you want to punch Charles, or the evil grin he wears when he's scoring a point. It's softer, more open – and about seven years younger. 

The thought of what Charles was like then, of having all that back again... Erik wants it so much it scares him. 

 

Seven years ago, he'd wanted to call Charles back even before he was halfway across the court. But he wouldn't let himself. He knew it wasn't true that Charles had treated him like a whore or a charity case, but he was still angry. Angry about Charles's careless assumptions and his fucking money, the way he'd always had it so easy. 

He'd been scared, too – if it hurt this much to say goodbye to Charles after just a few weeks, how much worse would it hurt if he let himself believe they could have more time together? Sooner or later it would have to end, and the thought of tearing his life away from Charles's then was more than he could bear. Better not to get close in the first place.

He hasn't let anyone close again. Not since he sat on his bed in St John's with a half-packed suitcase, hearing Charles running down the stairs and out of his life.

And now? Now they're in the same place, both in tenure-track positions, and that's a long time to be around someone if it doesn't work out between you. But if it _did_ work out...

He can't let himself imagine it, not properly. Can't let himself want that. He has to find out if it's true, what Hank and Raven said –

The coffee-maker hisses and bubbles, and Erik pours himself a cup. He adds sugar and cream, an indulgence he doesn't usually allow himself these days. But he wants to curl up with something sweet and soft and warm; if he can't have Charles at least he can have his coffee that way.

He's not good at being patient, but he wants this too much to screw it up by rushing things. If he makes himself hold back, take it gently, maybe Charles can get used to the idea of being friends – they don't have to be enemies just because they used to be lovers. Friends, and then something more...

If that's what Charles wants too. Which is a big if.

Charles obviously didn't spend last night curled up with a good book. Even if what Hank and Raven said was true, he's out there dating, or going to bars and clubs. Maybe he didn't have such a great time last night but he could easily meet someone else.

If they were still twenty-two, he'd grab Charles and slam him against the nearest wall, kiss him hard and fuck him till he couldn't see straight, bite his claim into Charles's skin and say _You're mine and no-one else's_ , the way he'd wanted to do at the Dean's horrible party. And god knows he'd like to take that short cut, but he's pretty sure it's not going to work. They have to find a way to talk about this, or they'll come to grief again, and he can't bear the thought of that. 

 

*~*~*~*

 

Charles stumbles home, showers till he's nearly falling asleep standing up, and collapses into bed face-first, as if he's been sandbagged. He dreams of the lurid red light in the club, of the man who reminded him too much and not enough of Erik, an older, unhappier Erik. 

Not that he would have said Erik was happy now, he thinks, when he wakes with the rags of his dream still clinging to him. But that man was so driven, so desperate and full of self-loathing that Charles is still shaken by the memory of it.

To come back from that, bruised and aching, feeling dirty all over and almost drunk with fatigue, and then... The sight of Erik on the verandah was just one more unreal thing. It was like a dream, too, hearing Erik call out to him, invite him in for coffee, as if they were friends. As if they could be friends. To see Erik so apparently open and unguarded, as if all that pain and anger between them hadn't happened. As if Erik hadn't said those things, last time they met.

He might have thought he'd dreamt it, but the physical memory feels too strong for that. Softness and warmth spreading from his breastbone across his chest and through the rest of his body, like feeling something coming back to life again.

He hasn't tried to write a poem for years, but he feels as if he might write one now. Just as well he never went in for rhyme – it wouldn't be easy to find a rhyme for “Lehnsherr”, he thinks, and laughs. A poem about alchemy, maybe, because he feels as if _he's_ been changed. Transmuted by that strange encounter in the pre-dawn light, like base metal turning into gold.

 _Stop mooning about, Xavier, and get to work._ He has midterm exams to grade, and a stack of unanswered emails that will only have got larger since yesterday. Blast Raven and her stupid practical jokes.

 

He doesn't see or hear from Erik for several days, but the thought of him is there at the corner of Charles's mind, a small but distinct glow of happiness.

Maybe Erik has forgiven him after all. Maybe they can be friends, if they take it gently this time.

He knows he'd find it hard to suppress the memory of what they were to each other, but maybe he doesn't have to. Maybe they can acknowledge it and try to do something different now.

They're more grown-up than they were seven years ago. It doesn't have to be the all-or-nothing agony it was when they were so young, barely more than kids. He's had plenty of casual relationships since then, and he assumes Erik must have done the same. They can be mature about this.

He's still spending way too much time daydreaming and writing bad poetry, days later, when his phone rings and everything changes.

“Raven? Darling, what is it?” 

She's crying, barely able to speak.

“It's George,” she says. “He's – Charles, he's dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: minor character death.
> 
> Chapter titles for this section:
> 
> ch. 4 from You Must Be Out Of Your Mind; ch. 5 from My Only Friend; ch. 6 from Busby Berkeley Dreams; ch. 7 from All You Ever Do Is Walk Away.
> 
> D-bar: the Debasement bar of the Graduate College at Princeton.
> 
> Goodwin Wharton was a real-life contemporary of Isaac Newton; Charles read about him in the book reviewed [here](http://www.strangehistory.net/2012/11/04/goodwin-wharton-and-the-fairies/).
> 
> My thanks to Kalypso for suggesting the Much Ado About Nothing plot.
> 
> An article on the carrels (lockable study spaces) in the Firestone Library can be found [here](http://paw.princeton.edu/issues/2012/02/08/pages/9857/).
> 
> The "Dinky" is a shuttle train service between Princeton Station and Princeton Junction; recent proposals to replace it with a bus service caused controversy.
> 
> Readers familiar with the 2009 film _A Single Man_ and with the 2011 film _Shame_ will recognize some plot elements and characters here.


	3. Part III: Wrapped Around My Heart (Princeton, November 2011)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> None of the words seem right. _I'm sorry. I miss being with you. Can we try again?_ They stick in his throat as if he's trying to swallow the crumpled balls of yellow paper he keeps shying at the wastebasket.
> 
> Erik's always been mystified when colleagues and students moan about writing, like it's _hard_ or something. You work out what you want to say and then you say it. Sure, you have to decide what evidence you want to use, and there are questions of structure to think about, but this agonizing over _words_...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this fic was going to be in three parts, but apparently it needs four... 
> 
> This part reworks (and hence has spoilers for) part of the 2009 film _A Single Man_.

**Chapter 8: Stars Exploding In The Night**

 

“You brought _fireworks_ ,” George says, like he can't quite believe it.

“This is Guy Fawkes Day, right?” Kenny says, hoping he hasn't screwed up. He'd been sure it was today. And George is always so British, he'd thought he would like it.

“Christ, I haven't had fireworks for years,” George says. “Not on Bonfire Night. Thank you!” 

“They're OK?” Kenny says. He doesn't really think George is only saying it to be nice.

“They're perfect,” George says. “Just for that, you get bangers and baked potatoes, even if I have to do it in the microwave.”

 _Bangers_ turn out to be sausages English-style, herby and peppery and unlike anything Kenny's had before. George won't say where he gets them. Kenny wonders if they're actually illegal for some complicated reason. They taste amazing.

“Always used to have this for Bonfire Night,” George says. “It's a pity we can't light a fire in the back yard. Don't want the neighbours calling out the fire brigade.”

There's mulled cider with the bangers and potatoes – Kenny thinks that might be an acquired taste – and then they wrap up well and go outside with the fireworks. He brought as many as he could find, this time of year, and the display goes on a good long time.

“Thanks again for house-sitting,” George says, when they're back indoors. “The plants look very happy.”

“Thanks for letting me,” Kenny says. “The landlord's fixed our plumbing now.”

He doesn't say _I loved being in your house_ , though it's true. It felt good, being here, even without George around. 

“Would you like coffee?” George asks.

“I can make it,” Kenny offers. He likes doing domestic things with George, likes feeling as if he lives here rather than just house-sitting.

George smiles at him, like he knows what Kenny's thinking, but all he says is “OK – thanks.”

They have whiskey with the coffee, though George says Dean Frost would have a fit if she saw them.

“Too late for that,” Kenny says, grinning. “Mulled cider, remember? Anyway, I'm legal now.”

“Since when?” George asks.

“Since last Wednesday,” Kenny says.

“Congratulations,” George says, raising his glass. “You should have told me earlier – the fireworks could have been in honour of your 21st.”

It feels like a celebration anyway, having an evening alone with George. He's been wanting that for so long, starting with that class on _The Merchant of Venice_ last spring. The things George had said then about minorities, the passionate way he'd talked – it was like a different person. As if Kenny was seeing him for the first time. He'd been trying to get George to notice him ever since, and could hardly believe his luck when he'd invited him to house-sit.

“Your birthday's January, isn't it?” Kenny says, and immediately wants to kick himself for coming across as pathetic, or as a scary stalker.

George looks surprised, but he just says “Yes, January 6th – I'll be at MLA.”

“Too bad you have to work on your birthday,” Kenny says.

George laughs. “Normally I'd agree with you,” he says, “but I'm looking forward to it this year. Raven and I have something rather special planned for our joint presentation.”

“What is it?” Kenny asks.

“I can't tell you,” George says. “It's a secret at the moment. But the minute it stops being a secret I promise I'll let you know.”

“OK,” Kenny says. He's not sure what else to say, but silence feels awkward. “Did you know Raven's dating my brother?”

“No!” George says. He looks delighted. “I knew there was someone in her life, but she didn't say who it was. This calls for another drink.”

Kenny's already quite drunk, and he thinks George might be as well, but he doesn't feel he can tell him to slow down. Anyway, he might have more of a chance with George if they're both drunk.

“What's your brother's name?” George asks, filling the glasses again.

“Hank,” Kenny says.

“To two of my favourite st – people,” George says, raising his glass. “And to Hank, who connects them.”

Kenny knows it's bad luck to drink to yourself; maybe he should drink to George instead.

“Here's looking at you, kid,” he says, doing a bad impression of Humphrey Bogart.

George laughs. “Are you by any chance getting tipsy, Mr McCoy?”

“Just a tad,” Kenny admits. 

He takes a bigger gulp of whiskey than he meant to, which makes him cough and splutter and drop the glass. It doesn't break, but a lot of whiskey goes over George's shirt.

“Shit, sorry George,” Kenny says, pulling out his bandanna and mopping at the spill.

George tries to help with the mopping and somehow they end up in a heap on the couch with Kenny on top, kissing George like his life depends on it.

“Whoa,” George says, trying to push him away.

Kenny's too far gone to stop now, though. He kisses George's neck and then his ear, and starts trying to undo his shirt. George struggles underneath him and they tumble onto the carpet, grappling with each other. George ends up on top this time, and Kenny clings to him, pulling him closer. He can feel George has an erection, and he tries to push his hand in between them. George grabs his wrists and holds them away from him as Kenny pants and thrashes around.

“Seriously,” George says, “whoa. Kenny. We can't do this.”

“No?” Kenny says, pressing his hips up against George's.

“No,” George says, pulling away from him and sitting back on the couch. He's gone very red in the face and he's panting.

“You want to,” Kenny says. It comes out sounding way too close to _It's not fair_.

“I – yes,” George says. He breathes hard: out of shape, Kenny thinks. “I'm sorry, Kenny. I shouldn't have let that happen.”

“Do you want me to go?” Kenny asks, though he's not sure he can walk, much less cycle.

George looks him up and down. “It's late,” he says, “and you've had a lot to drink. I think you'd be safer here, if you don't mind the couch.”

“Are you sure?” Kenny says.

“Am I sure it's OK?” George says with a weak grin. “Or am I sure you're sleeping on the couch? Both.”

“The couch is fine,” Kenny lies. “Thanks.”

“I do like you,” George says, not looking at him. “Very much, in fact. But you're my student, and we're both more than a little tight, and there are rules about these things.”

“Screw the rules,” Kenny says. He knows George is right but he doesn't want to accept that's how it has to be.

“You remind me of Jim,” George says abruptly. “Which makes it even more of a bad idea.”

Kenny stares at the photograph on the wall, George and another man with their arms around another. The other guy doesn't look anything like him. “Is that him?”

George nods. “Taken last year,” he says. “Not long before he was killed.”

“I'm sorry,” Kenny says. He knows there was an accident, because that's what everybody knows; but he doesn't know the rest, and doesn't think he should ask.

“Thank you,” George says.

The silence stretches out between them, till George says he'd better find Kenny some bedding. They make up the bed on the couch, and George hugs him goodnight and says “See you in the morning.”

It's hard to sleep, and when he wakes at 4 a.m. Kenny knows this is it for a while. He gets up and paces about the room, wanders into the kitchen thinking maybe he'll make some hot chocolate, and sees that George's light is still on. So he can't sleep either. Maybe he'd like some hot chocolate too.

“George,” he calls softly. “George?”

No answer. He must have fallen asleep with the light on. 

Kenny pushes open the door very gently, not wanting to wake him if he's asleep, and sees that he's lying fully clothed on the bed. Something about the way he's lying there looks wrong, though...

“George?”

The figure on the bed doesn't move.

“ _George_ ,” he says, louder.

He moves closer to the bed, and then he sees.

 _Jesus_.

For a moment he thinks George is playing a trick on him, and he's furious. Then he looks again at the colour of George's skin, at his strained and set expression. He puts out a hand and touches George's face.

Cold.

The touch of it sends a spike of cold through his own gut, and he retches.

What now?

He's never found a body before. Never _seen_ a body before.

Dial 911. 911, and then Hank, he thinks. Between them, they'll know what to do.

 

*~*~*~*

 

“Fuck!” Raven says, dragged from sleep by the sound of Hank's mobile. “Who the hell is that?”

Hank gropes blearily for his phone. “Kenny,” he says. He switches the light on.

“Ow!” Raven protests. She blinks at the alarm clock. 4.30 a.m. Shit. “Tell him from me this had better be important.” 

“Jesus,” Hank says. “When?” He glances at her, then looks away again, too quickly, as if he's afraid to let her see his expression. “Don't touch anything. I'm coming over right away.”

She feels a cold twist of fear inside her. “What's happened?” 

He doesn't look at her. “Professor Falconer,” he says. “Kenny's at his house. He says he's dead.”

The room's spinning and there's a ringing in her ears. She can hear a voice shouting “No!”, though she barely recognizes it as her own.

“Raven,” Hank says, and hugs her tight. “I'm sorry, but I have to go.”

“I'm coming with you,” she says, pulling away from his embrace. She stumbles out of bed and makes a frantic grab for yesterday's clothes, still lying in a heap on the chair.

He doesn't argue – he's too busy getting dressed, as fast as he can.

Even with layers and layers of her warmest clothes on, her teeth are chattering. Shock, she thinks, but there's no time for brandy, never mind for hot sweet tea.

Hank's car takes four tries to start.

“What the hell was he _doing_ there?” he says, when they're finally on their way.

She concentrates as hard as she can on not screaming at him for his piece-of-shit car and his stupid fucking questions. All the times she's seen Kenny hanging around outside George's office come back and hit her: she wants to shake George for being such a fucking idiot, and then for being fucking _dead_ , and then she has to bite her fist till she's choking on the wool of her glove, so she doesn't start crying.

George. Oh, _George_.

 

The last person she saw dead was the man she still thinks of as her father, Brian Xavier. George looks much the same. Did he have a weak heart too?

She thinks of George drinking whiskey, George eating pancakes with bacon and maple syrup, George saying he ought to give up smoking, George red-faced and panting after a run. _Come back to life, you stupid bastard, I swear I'm going to kill you for not taking better care of yourself..._

Kenny's shaking, rocking to and fro on the couch, which is still a mess of blankets and cushions. He must have slept there, she realizes, relieved to think that George hadn't been a complete idiot. Imagine if they'd been in bed together when it happened, or actually doing it. Jesus.

She doesn't know how to ask what happened between them: she's scared Kenny will start crying, and she's just barely holding together herself.

Hank's clearly not suffering from any such inhibitions. “Why were you even here?”

“Hank,” she says warningly, because Kenny's gone green.

“What?” Hank snaps.

The doorbell rings; it's the ambulance, thank god.

“I'll handle this,” Hank says grimly. 

Neither of them is about to argue. Kenny looks like he's ready to faint, or throw up. 

“Kenny,” Raven says, “can you show me where the tea is? I could really do with some.”

“OK,” he says shakily, and leads the way to the kitchen.

She watches him as he makes tea for them both, thinking how much at home he seems.

“I house-sat for George,” he says. “He made me dinner as a thank-you.”

“Oh,” she says.

“Nothing happened,” he says. “I wanted it to, but it didn't.”

She feels like hugging him, but she knows that's a bad idea. Instead, she drinks her tea and waits.

“He wouldn't have done it on purpose,” he says, as if he's arguing with himself. “Would he?”

“I don't think so,” she says. “Did he seem OK to you?”

She remembers how George was after his partner died, so quiet she'd been afraid he might do something like that. Even so, she was pretty sure he wouldn't have wanted Kenny to find him.

“He was happy,” Kenny says. “He liked the fireworks. He was looking forward to your thing at the MLA – ”

“He told you about that?” she asks, stunned.

“Only that it was exciting,” he says. “He said it was a secret and he couldn't tell me yet – ”

He chokes up at that, and so does she. How is she supposed to go on with their work now? The thought of going to MLA without George is horrible. The thought of pulling out is hugely tempting, but she knows she'd feel she was letting him down. Shaw would be the obvious person to ask, but he'd just tell her to stop being a crybaby and get on with it. 

Why is she even _thinking_ about this when George is dead? Of all the selfish, shallow – oh shit, she is actually going to cry.

“They're taking him,” Hank says, coming into the kitchen. He puts his arms around her.

“Did they say what he – what it was?” Kenny's voice shakes.

“They think it could have been a heart attack,” Hank says, “but there'll have to be a post-mortem.”

Raven clings to him, burying her face in his shoulder, and he rubs her back till she stops crying.

“Finish your tea and we'll take Kenny home,” he says.

 

They're nearly at the student house when Kenny says “Shit, I forgot my bike.”

“Not going back for that now,” Hank says. “We all need sleep.”

She thinks Kenny would argue if he was less exhausted, but he doesn't say anything.

“Take care of yourself, Kenny,” she says, and gives him a hug. “Will you be OK?”

“Yeah,” he says, though he doesn't sound sure.

 

The next time she sees him, he's in a coma in Plainsboro Hospital, hooked up to an array of drips and monitors, with Hank sitting grimly at his bedside.

 

**Chapter 9: Not For All My Little Words**

 

Erik's in his office, with a yellow legal pad and a fountain pen he didn't even know he still had. Writing in longhand, which – apart from grocery lists and post-it notes – he hasn't done for years. But something about trying to write this on a computer doesn't feel right.

Not that he's getting anywhere as it is. He glares at the lines of scratched-out writing spidering across the page. His writing's barely fucking legible – even he doesn't know what that third word in the second line is. A graphologist would have a field day with this document. _Subject has clearly decided to withdraw from communicating with the world..._. For fuck's sake. 

It would help if he knew what he wanted to say in the first place. He can hardly come out and ask Charles if he's in love with him. ( _Still_ in love with him?) 

Anyone with half a lick of sense would probably talk to the guy, instead of writing. But they never did too well with talking. They just kept falling into bed until they couldn't do that any longer, because his time was up. And he wouldn't let Charles buy them more time together.

He still thinks he'd have been wrong to say yes. But saying no hadn't made him feel good about himself. It made him feel lost and bereft, angry and hurt. The pain of separation, like having his skin torn from him, leaving him raw and vulnerable for the longest time...

Some of that pain's not healed even now, he knows that. He never let himself mourn Charles, mourn what they had. Easier to blame Charles and be angry with him. To have some parallel fantasy world in his head where Charles had said something different. Or where a mysterious stranger had left _him_ money, so they could be together without it having to mean that Charles had bought him...

None of the words seem right. _I'm sorry. I miss being with you. Can we try again?_ They stick in his throat as if he's trying to swallow the crumpled balls of yellow paper he keeps shying at the wastebasket.

He's always been mystified when colleagues and students moan about writing, like it's _hard_ or something. You work out what you want to say and then you say it. Sure, you have to decide what evidence you want to use, and there are questions of structure to think about, but this agonizing over _words_...

Charles would laugh if he could see Erik struggling like this, getting ink all over his fingers and cursing his leaky pen.

Or maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he'd be – pleased, even, that Erik was making an effort. Doing something he imagines Charles would do in his place.

The thought of Charles writing to him makes his heart thump erratically. He can picture Charles sitting at his desk, totally focused on the task in front of him, searching for just the right word, the right phrase to tell Erik how he feels about him...

“Fuck!” Erik crumples up another sheet of paper in disgust and hurls it at the wastebasket, missing by inches. It's hopeless, he'll never be able to do this, he doesn't even know why he's trying – 

Maybe talking would be easier after all. He shoves the leaky fountain pen in his desk drawer, scrubs at his hands with a handkerchief, swears, and grabs his jacket. Charles's department probably has special stuff for cleaning ink off you; the place is stuffed full of so-called creative writers...

Not today, it seems: as he looks across at McCosh he sees a crowd outside it, students and faculty from the looks of it. Several of them seem to be crying. 

Erik's stomach pitches; what if something's happened to Charles? No, he's there in the crowd, holding Raven. He looks up, and says something to her, hugs her tight and then lets go, moving away from the crowd and towards Erik.

“Are you OK?” Erik asks.

“I'm OK, but Raven isn't,” Charles says. “George Falconer's dead.”

George Falconer? The name doesn't mean anything to him.

“He's – he was – one of Raven's advisors. They were pretty close,” Charles says. “And Kenny McCoy – Hank's brother – is in hospital. He found George's body.”

“Shit,” Erik says.

“Yeah,” Charles says, and grimaces. “He got knocked off his bike last night and he's in intensive care. Hank's with him.”

“Oh,” Erik says. He feels as if he should do something, though he has no idea what. It's not as if he's close to Hank, and the only encounters he's had with Raven so far have not gone well at all. “Is there anything I can do?”

Charles's expression lightens a little. “That's kind of you to offer, but I don't think so. I would have liked to have that coffee with you, but I'm afraid we'll have to take a rain check – I need to look after Raven.”

“Yes, of course,” Erik says. “Well. Um. Let me know if you need a break from it all.”

“I will,” Charles says, with a faint smile. “Thank you, Erik.”

There's clearly no point in hanging around; he's just going to be in the way. He watches Charles go back to Raven, and then he heads back to his office. 

 

The days go by, but there's no word from Charles. Logan, who always has the gossip, says the post-mortem results showed Falconer had a heart attack: death from natural causes. They've set a date for the memorial service.

Erik is not the sort of person who sends flowers, and he'd feel stupid sending them to Charles. Even more stupid sending them to Raven. 

Eventually he sends Charles an email: **Thinking of you. Hope Raven is doing OK. Erik**

The answer's even briefer: **Thank you. C**

Nothing to do but wait. Work and wait. So that's what he does.

 

**Chapter 10: Like The Moon Needs Poetry**

 

The Skype link's all set up and ready to go. Raven opens a beer and curls up next to Charles on the couch, her laptop open on the table in front of them. He'd offered to make popcorn, which she thinks was probably a joke. She's glad to have someone to watch this with, and he'll understand more of it than Hank would, but still...

“I thought you said Alex was Armando's boyfriend,” Charles says. “What's he doing in Berkeley?”

“Working with some big shot in Nuclear Engineering,” she says.

As if on cue, Alex's face appears on the screen; he sticks out his tongue at her and then pretends the connection's cutting out.

“Fuck you,” Raven says. 

Alex mimes being wounded to the quick, then grins. “Come on, you're lucky I'm here,” he says.

It's true enough; if it wasn't for him she'd have no way of hearing Shaw's lecture. As it is, she doesn't even know what Shaw is lecturing on, which is weird. Normally he'd get her to help with the PowerPoint slides, or check his references, but not this time.

“It's a shame we can't record it,” Charles says.

“Yeah,” she says, “but it's a whole lot better than nothing.”

The Chair of English and Comp. Lit. is explaining the history of this prestigious annual lecture, name-checking the famous people who've done it in previous years, and saying how delighted and privileged they are to have Sebastian Shaw, Distinguished Professor of Early Modern Literature at Princeton, to deliver this year's lecture. She goes through all of Shaw's monographs, his ground-breaking studies of Renaissance poetry and art, and then he's there, filling the Skype window.

Some people envy Raven, working with Shaw, but it's a mixed blessing. They say he can make or break your career, but it's hard to point at many of his former students who've really done that well after Princeton. If she can just get through this year...

Charles puts his arm around her and gives her a quick hug. He knows she's thinking about George. She misses him constantly, his gentleness and his quirks and his British politeness. She's sad that he and Charles never got to know each other; George wasn't here when Charles was an undergrad. They could have been good friends, she thinks.

Sooner or later she's going to have to go through all her notes from her work with George on the manuscript, though the thought of it still makes her miserable and exhausted. But Shaw will be expecting to see new work when he gets back from his trip to Berkeley, and she knows better than to disappoint him.

Shaw's talking about his work to date, and she knows this stuff so well that she's only half-listening, until she hears the name Actaeon, and then he's talking about Orsino in _Twelfth Night_ , and what Shakespeare does with that image of fell and cruel hounds turning on their master.

“Huh,” Charles says. “Sounds like your chapter. Did you know he was working on this?”

“No,” she says. 

It's irritating, but it's hard to deal with that material and say anything new, she knows that. At least thanks to George she has something new to say at MLA...

Except that Shaw – _Shaw_ , Jesus tapdancing Christ, is now saying it. 

Is talking about how _he_ discovered the Ficino manuscript, the one that she and George found in that weird antiquarian place on the Lower East Side. Is reading aloud from _her fucking translation_ as if it's his own, in front of maybe five hundred people.

“Raven?” 

Charles sounds worried, and she looks down and sees she's scratched her arms till blood wells up in the cuts. She couldn't even feel she was doing it.

“The bastard,” she says, almost under her breath. “The motherfucking bastard.”

“What is it?” Charles says. “What's wrong?”

“That's my work,” she says. “My work and George's work, and he just, he took it. He stole it.”

Charles looks stunned, as well he might. “He _what_?”

“George and I found this manuscript,” she says. “By Marsilio Ficino.”

“The guy who invented Platonic love?” Charles asks.

“Not so much invented it, but yeah, the one who defined it for the Western world,” she says. “It's a letter from him to the guy he loved, and nobody even knew it existed. It's about the Actaeon myth in Ovid. About desire and the way it tears you apart. It's incredible – it's just so powerful, and it shows you a whole other side of him, of where that idea of Platonic love comes from for him.”

Charles is looking at her with such affection and pride that she can hardly bear it.

“You never said!”

“It was a secret,” she says. “We were going to present about it at MLA.”

“But you told Shaw?”

“I _had_ to!” she says. “He's my fucking _advisor_ , Charles, and he kept asking why I hadn't finished my chapter, and then he said I couldn't do the paper at MLA unless he OK'd it first, he'd seen too many grad students crash and burn at conferences and he wasn't going to let that happen to me – ”

Charles is swearing steadily, his fists clenched, and his reaction makes it all somehow more real. She feels cold inside. 

“What do I _do_ about this, Charles?”

“I don't know,” he says. There's a long pause and then he says “You have to talk to Emma.”

“What? Charles, there's no way she's going to take my word against Shaw's. And that's what it would be. George doesn't – _didn't_ do email. He said he'd once mis-sent an email to someone and it went really badly. He was kind of paranoid about technology. We used to meet in his office and just talk about it. I didn't email Shaw about it, either – I gave him a hard copy of the translation.”

“Ugh,” Charles says. “Still, I think you have to go to her. Otherwise whatever we do is going to founder on the question of why you didn't talk to your department chair about this.”

“We?” Raven says.

“Yes, we,” Charles says firmly. “She may not listen to me, because she'll think I'm biased. But of _course_ I'm with you.”

She does cry at that, harsh sobs that shake her whole body. He holds her and strokes her hair till the tears subside.

“I want Hank,” she says childishly, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

Charles hugs her and says “Is there any more news?”

She shakes her head. “Kenny's stable, and they say he'll probably recover consciousness. That's all.”

“Poor boy,” Charles says, “and poor Hank, and poor you.”

On the screen, Shaw reads yet another passage of Ficino's letter.

Raven sits bolt upright and says “What the _fuck_?”

“What?” Charles says, startled.

“Jesus,” she says. “He doesn't have the manuscript.”

“He doesn't?” 

“I thought he'd taken it,” she says, “but he can't have done.”

“How can you tell?” Charles says.

“That bit about poetry and the moon,” she says. “It was in the draft I gave him, but I mistranscribed it. George corrected it from the manuscript. Shaw would have spotted it right away – he's even better than George at reading that sort of handwriting.”

“So where is it?” Charles asks.

“I don't know,” she says. 

On the Skype link, Shaw makes some final glossy comment about humankind's inability to outrun the hounds of desire, and the lecture's over, to wild applause. 

Question time, and someone asks what's happening now with the manuscript. Raven leans forward, and Charles grips her hand.

Shaw smiles that beatific smile that always makes her flesh creep. “There will be a full parallel text edition of the facsimile and translation in due course. The manuscript will also go on display in the Firestone Library at Princeton, which will be its new home.”

There's more of this shit, about how proud he is to have added this new chapter to the great tradition of Early Modern Studies at Princeton. Raven wonders if she's actually going to be sick.

A woman gets up at the front of the audience. She looks vaguely familiar. She also looks angry, which is a shock – actually, she looks the way Raven thinks she probably looks herself right now.

The woman raises her hand, and the Chair gestures to the assistant to give her the hand microphone for questions.

“Moira!” Charles says, at the same time as the woman says “Moira MacTaggert.”

Of course – Raven's seen pictures of her with Charles in senior year. She went to California for grad school, didn't she?

“Moira, how nice to see you again,” Shaw says, in a patronizing tone that makes Raven want to leap through the computer screen and punch his lights out.

“I was very interested in what you said about Titian,” Moira says, and there's an edge in her voice that suggests she's barely holding it together. “Particularly the unfinished painting of Actaeon being attacked by his own hounds. Because I remember writing exactly what you said about it. In my Princeton senior thesis. The one you supervised.”

There's a shocked reaction and even a couple of boos, though it's not clear whether they're aimed at Shaw or at Moira for being a party-pooper.

The Chair intervenes, protesting that this is hardly an appropriate response to Professor Shaw's amazing lecture and can't Professor MacTaggert save it till later.

“No I fucking well can't,” Moira says, and Raven knows she's lost now: an angry woman is never going to be listened to or taken seriously. Not in this sort of setting.

“We all know how this happens, don't we?” Shaw says, completely unruffled. If anything, he seems _more_ full of himself than before, not less. “I've seen it over and over: students feeling they don't need to acknowledge ideas their advisors have given them. It's very sad, but you get used to it. No doubt you'll find this with your own students, sooner or later.”

Raven throws her beer bottle against the wall: she needs to break something, and better that than the laptop. Charles doesn't protest; he's too busy swearing at the screen.

Moira's clearly trying to say something else, but Raven sees the Chair gesturing to someone at the back of the auditorium and the microphone goes dead.

“I'm sorry, we seem to have lost sound,” the Chair says, “and we've also run out of time for questions. Those of you who are coming to the dinner, the reception starts in fifteen minutes. Can I ask everyone to join me in thanking Professor Shaw for a dazzling and hugely important lecture, one I'm sure we'll all be talking about for years to come.”

The audience goes mad; it's like a fucking rock concert, Raven thinks bitterly.

“And that's how he does it,” she says. “How many other students do you think he's ripped off over the years?”

It makes sense of why his grad students don't do so well, though. If he's stealing the good stuff for himself and they can't fight back, they're left with the dross. And most of them are going to be too shit-scared to challenge him even privately, never mind committing very public professional suicide in the way she suspects Moira MacTaggert's just done.

Alex's face comes back into the Skype window. 

“How about that?” he says, beaming. “Armando said it would be boring – shows how much _he_ knows. Shame about the crazy lady at the front, but your advisor is awesome. OK, have to go, see you in February. Drinks in the D-bar, and you're paying, right?”

“Right,” Raven says tightly, though what she really wants to say is Go fuck yourself.

“Jesus,” Charles says. “ _Moira_.” 

He pulls his phone out and scrolls through contacts, then presses Call. 

“Shit,” he says. “Her phone's switched off, of course it is.”

He calls several times over the next hour, in between making dinner for Raven that she can't eat even to please him. He tries again at intervals through the rest of the evening, but there's still no answer, not even voicemail.

“I'll keep trying,” he says. “I still think you should talk to Emma, as soon as you can; but it'd be easier if we could get even one piece of evidence on our side.”

Maybe Moira can help, but she doubts it. Finding the manuscript would help more.

“When does Shaw get back?” he asks.

“Sunday afternoon,” she says. 

It's Thursday now; she has no fucking idea how they're supposed to build a case by then. 

 

**Chapter 11: Maybe He Should Be Illegal**

 

Erik's reading the tributes to George Falconer in the Daily Princetonian when the Skype alert sounds. It's Janos, which is slightly surprising – it's been, what, six months since Erik last heard from him?

“Hi,” Erik says. 

“Hi,” Janos says. “Look, I need your help. Or rather, Moira does.”

“I'm fine, thanks for asking,” Erik says sarcastically. “OK, what's Moira's problem?”

What Janos sees in that woman is a perpetual mystery to him. Erik's never liked her. Which has absolutely nothing to do with whatever her relationship was with Charles.

“There was a big lecture at Berkeley two days ago,” Janos says. “Some guy from your place who taught her in senior year. And he'd plagiarized a chunk of her senior thesis.”

“Huh,” Erik says. He knows how easy these accusations are to make. It would be just like Moira to persuade herself she'd been wronged when she hadn't.

“So she called him on it, publicly,” Janos says, “and he accused her of stealing _his_ ideas, and now her department chair is giving her shit about it because _this was a big deal_ , Erik, OK?”

Trust Moira to make a drama out of it, Erik thinks sourly. Still, doing it like that takes guts, he has to admit.

“OK,” he says. “So what am I supposed to do about this? Hunt the guy down and beat him to a pulp?”

Janos sighs. “I don't know,” he says. “Maybe see if you can find out if he's done this to anyone else? Moira thinks she's probably not the only one.”

Erik has many better things to do than playing Nancy Drew on campus, and is about to say so when Janos says “He's in Comp Lit – guy called Sebastian Shaw. Just made some big discovery about a manuscript on Ovid, apparently.”

Ovid, Erik thinks. Isn't that what Raven is working on? He could ask Hank, except he couldn't, because Hank's still up at the hospital most of the time.

But he _could_ ask Charles. Who probably knows more about Shaw than Hank would anyway.

“OK,” he says. “I'll see what I can do.”

“Really?” Janos sounds like he was expecting more of a fight.

“Really,” Erik says. “I know a couple of people in that area. I'll ask around.”

“Ah,” Janos says. “Would one of those people be an ex of yours, by any chance?”

“Fuck off,” Erik says. He can feel he's gone red.

Janos laughs. “Moira mentioned Xavier was back at Princeton, so I did wonder if you'd run into him.”

“A couple of times, yeah,” Erik says casually.

“Good,” Janos says. “It's about time you stopped carrying a torch for him.”

“I was not carrying a torch for him!” Erik shouts.

“You and the Statue of Liberty,” Janos says. “But if you're on speaking terms that's good news for Moira.”

Erik can't stay mad at him. He's too busy thinking about ringing Charles.

“Charles's sister works on Ovid,” he says. “I think.”

“Great,” Janos says. “Thanks, Erik, I owe you one.”

“Believe me,” Erik says, “I'll be calling that in.”

“Do,” Janos says. “And be careful, OK? Moira thinks Shaw is dangerous.”

“I will,” Erik says, though he's not really listening any more.

He disconnects the Skype call and looks up Charles's number in the campus directory. 

Charles answers after the first ring. “Charles Xavier.”

“Charles,” Erik says, and finds he's unexpectedly tongue-tied.

“Erik, hi,” Charles says. He sounds pleased, and so vulnerable that Erik can hardly breathe. “It's – um, it's lovely to hear you, but this isn't a good time. Can I call you back?”

“Of course,” Erik says, fighting his disappointment. “Sorry to call at a bad time. I wanted to ask you something about Sebastian Shaw.”

“Shaw,” Charles says, and he sounds suddenly tougher, hard-edged. “Why do you – no, look, this isn't a conversation to have on the phone. Can I meet you in half an hour?”

“Sure,” Erik says. “Where's good for you?”

“Somewhere off campus,” Charles says. “How about Thomas Sweet?”

Ice-cream in November? It seems perverse, but he says yes anyway. He'd have said yes to anywhere Charles suggested, after all.

It's not till he's walking along Nassau Street that he wonders why Moira didn't ask Charles to help her. Maybe she's worried about the consequences to Charles if he goes after Shaw. True, it's not great to be rocking the boat with this sort of accusation when you're still untenured, but what's the worst that can happen? 

His parents didn't raise him to stand by and do nothing when there's bad stuff going on. And if Shaw is stealing his students' work, Erik doesn't see why he should get away with that.

If it happens to bring Erik into closer contact with Charles, well, that's an added inducement...

Erik stares at the menu of blendable and non-blendable flavours, the list of all the blend-ins you can have swirled through your ice-cream if the fancy takes you. Just looking at it makes his teeth ache.

“Hi, what can I get you?” the server says perkily.

Suppressing a mad impulse to ask for Jersey Shore (seriously, what _is_ that?), Erik says “Cinnamon. One scoop.”

“Erik!” Charles's voice says from behind him. “You're here already.”

Full marks for observation, Erik thinks. Nervous. Well, so is he. It's been a long time since they met on purpose, just the two of them.

“Charles,” he says, turning. “What would you like?”

“Oh,” Charles says, visibly flustered. “Um. What are you having?”

“Cinnamon,” Erik says.

“That sounds good,” Charles says. “I'll have that too.”

“You guys want blend-ins?” the server asks.

“Almonds,” Charles says, as Erik says “No.”

“One with almonds, one without,” the server says. 

“Let me get this,” Erik says.

Charles looks taken aback, but he says “OK. Thanks.” 

They sit down, and Charles is smiling as if he can't stop himself, so happy about such a small thing; Erik can't help smiling back. He feels warmth spreading from his sternum to his collarbone and his shoulders.

“I have a terrible weakness for this place,” Charles says with a sheepish grin. “Used to come here far too often. Good choice, by the way.”

Erik's going to have an ice-cream headache if he's not careful, but he's too happy to mind. He looks at Charles licking ice-cream off his top lip and he feels like a teenager on a date.

“So,” Charles says, and he's not smiling any more, “what was it you wanted to ask me about Shaw?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles for this section: section title from Boa Constrictor; ch. 8 from Chicken With Its Head Cut Off; ch. 9 from All My Little Words; ch. 10 from Come Back From San Francisco; ch. 11 from When My Boy Walks Down The Street.
> 
> Marsilio Ficino's commentary on Plato, _De Amore_ ("On Love"), has been described as "the great bestseller of early Modern Europe".
> 
> [MLA](http://www.mla.org/convention), the annual convention of the Modern Language Association, is the largest and most important US conference for scholars of language and literature.


	4. Part IV: The Book of Love (Princeton, November 2011)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of Charles's senses are alive and tingling, the way it feels they haven't been for months. He can feel the heat of Erik's body, so close they're almost touching, and it makes him ache with longing. His skin feels too tight. His clothes feel – also too tight, his jeans at any rate, because apparently being almost pressed up against Erik Lehnsherr in a small confined space has this Pavlovian effect on him. Who knew?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final part, with the happy ending as promised. Thank you to everyone who commented, left kudos or otherwise cheered me on in the writing of this, which turned out to be the longest piece of fic I've written so far.

**Chapter 12: No-one Alive Can Break Your Code**

 

Until Erik called, Charles was having a seriously shitty day. It's amazing how many dead ends you can run up against in under twenty-four hours.

 

The manuscript wasn't in the library – it couldn't have remained a secret if it had been, but they'd checked anyway, and neither Rare Books and Manuscripts nor Accessions had had any recent deposits. 

It wasn't in George's office, either – and Charles wasn't at all sure the janitor believed his story about having lent George a book he needed back urgently. He hoped that wouldn't go any further. Gaining access to a dead colleague's office under false pretences isn't something you want on your file when you come up for tenure review.

“Wouldn't the guy George bought it from have a record of the purchase?” he asked Raven.

She wasn't hopeful, but he'd called Azazel at NYU anyway, since the shop was just a few blocks away from the Slavonic Studies offices in Washington Square. Azazel said he'd check it out, but he'd called back mid-morning.

“Sorry, Charles, there's nobody there. There's a sign on the door saying they're closed due to family sickness. No, there wasn't anything about how long they'd be closed.”

He'd just put the phone down from the call with Azazel when it rang again. He barely stopped himself from saying “Did you get another lead?”, realizing just in time that it might not be Azazel at all.

 _Erik._ The last person he was expecting to hear from today.

His heart skipped a beat, but he told himself he couldn't talk to him now, couldn't let himself think about personal stuff, not with this Shaw business hanging over them.

When Erik said it was Shaw he wanted to talk about, Charles nearly fell off his chair.

 

And now here they are at Thomas Sweet, eating ice-cream and eyeing each other like a couple of kids, and the last thing he wants to do is ruin the first relaxed time they've had together in seven years. Has to be done, though.

“So,” he says. “What did you want to know about Shaw?”

Erik looks at him as if he's trying to read him. “Before I start,” he says, “he's not a friend of yours, is he?”

“God, no,” Charles says with a shudder. He always thought Shaw was creepy, even when Moira thought the sun shone out of his backside.

“You know Moira MacTaggert, right?” Erik says.

“Yes,” Charles says, startled. “Do you?”

“Not well,” Erik says. “But she's dating my friend Janos, and he's worried about her.”

“So am I,” Charles says, grimacing. He keeps trying to call her, but there's still no answer.

“You know about this?” Erik says, surprised.

“I watched the lecture,” Charles says. “A friend of Raven's Skyped it for her.”

“This discovery that Shaw said he'd made,” Erik says slowly, “Janos said it was a big deal.”

“It was,” Charles says. “A very big deal. An Early Modern manuscript nobody even knew existed.”

“Is there any proof Shaw actually discovered it?” Erik asks.

Charles takes a deep breath. “There shouldn't be,” he says, “because he didn't. George Falconer and Raven did. They were working on it together.”

“Shit,” Erik says. “This guy's even more of a bastard than I thought. A lot more.”

Charles nods. He's not sure what to say; he feels weary and helpless and he doesn't want this burden he can't carry and doesn't know how to put down.

“So,” Erik says, “what do we do about it?”

“We?” Charles says, hope bubbling up in his chest.

“I promised Janos I'd help,” Erik says. He's gone a bit red, Charles doesn't know why. 

Charles honestly has no idea what they should do. But if Erik is on his side, their side, maybe there's a chance they can find a solution.

“Thank you,” he says, reaching out to touch Erik's arm –

His phone rings, making them both jump.

“Raven,” he says. “Are you OK? What is it?” 

“Kenny,” she says shakily.

His stomach lurches – surely the doctors can't have got it so badly wrong?

“He's awake,” Raven says. 

Charles draws a deep shaky breath of relief. “That's great news – ”

“ – and he still has the keys to George's house,” she says. “He just gave them to me.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Charles says. The one place they haven't tried yet.

Erik mouths _What?_

“Hang on, Raven – Hank's brother's come round,” Charles says to Erik, “and he's given Raven the keys to George's house.”

“Who are you with?” Raven demands.

“Erik Lehnsherr,” Charles says. “He knows Moira. He wants to help.”

“Shit, Charles, are you sure?” she says. 

“Yes,” he says. “I'm sure.” There's that feeling of warmth again as he says it, of something unfolding or coming back to life.

Erik's looking at him quizzically. Charles tells himself to concentrate, because that look could be seriously distracting.

“Are you still at the hospital?” he asks Raven.

“I'm on my way back now,” she says. “On foot, before you ask.”

“Yes, well, go carefully, please Raven. I don't want to be sitting by your bedside wondering if you're ever going to wake up again.”

“Yeah,” she says. “You take care too, OK?”

He ends the call and looks at Erik, who is still looking at him in a way that makes Charles feel funny inside. _Concentrate, Xavier._

“So?” Erik says, raising an eyebrow.

“So we look for the manuscript at George's house,” Charles says, “and then we set a trap.”

“Stealth and subterfuge,” Erik says, and grins. “It's just as well you've got me to help you.”

“I can do stealth and subterfuge,” Charles protests, and dear god is he actually flirting now?

“Charles, you wouldn't know stealth and subterfuge if it sat up and gave you a kiss,” Erik says, laughing.

Interesting word choice. 

“Ha,” Charles says. He can feel himself blushing, which is really annoying. “That's all you know,” he says, and sees Erik wince. _Shit_. “Sorry,” he says. “Joke.”

Erik seems to give himself a shake.

“OK,” he says. “So what's your cunning plan, assuming you have one?”

 

**Chapter 13: On A Night Like This**

 

“Why do I feel like the end of _LA Confidential_?” Erik grumbles.

“Just so long as you're Russell Crowe or Guy Pearce and not whatsisname, the one who ends up dead,” Charles says.

“I hope Shaw's fucking flight is on time,” Erik says.

That's a complication Charles hadn't thought about. He tries very hard not to think about it now.

“Just so you know,” Erik says, “if we both get fired for this I am totally blaming you.”

“Deal,” Charles says. 

He thinks about saying he could sue the university on behalf of them both if that happens, but decides that any reference to his personal finances, however oblique, is best avoided. The memory of how things ended between them seven years ago is still too sharp for comfort. He knows that the difference in their incomes could be a sore point if they ever do manage to get together. Right now, though, having that problem – or rather, having the kind of relationship with Erik where it would _be_ a problem – seems like an unimaginable luxury.

It's probably best not to try and imagine it at all. Because it's hard enough being this close to Erik without that, and they're going to be here for a while. In George Falconer's hall closet, waiting for Raven to show up as bait in the trap they've set for Shaw.

At least the Ficino letter is safe now, locked away in Charles's office. It still amazes him that Shaw took the risk that he did – not just laying claim to something that wasn't his, but something he hadn't even stolen yet. But as Raven said when they found the manuscript in George's study, _Shaw spent **years** getting away with murder; why would he think his luck was going to run out now?_ With George dead, Shaw probably assumed it was safe to steal their work, that Raven wouldn't dare to challenge him about the manuscript, or that if she did no-one would believe her. He must have felt he was invincible.

Charles tries to imagine Shaw reading Raven's email, the one they'd all drafted together saying that she's determined to carry on George's work for their MLA presentation; that she needs to do some more work on the translation but she thinks the manuscript must be at George's house; that Kenny's given her George's house keys and she's going to search the house this evening. 

It always works in films, he thinks. Send the villain a message that reads _Fly, all is discovered_.

He's not sure this closet was the best place to choose for a stakeout, though. They really are too close for comfort and it's starting to get to him.

It's torture, being so close to Erik that he can smell him. All of Charles's senses are alive and tingling, the way it feels they haven't been for months. He can feel the heat of Erik's body, so close they're almost touching, and it makes him ache with longing. His skin feels too tight. His clothes feel – also too tight, his jeans at any rate, because apparently being almost pressed up against Erik Lehnsherr in a small confined space has this Pavlovian effect on him. Who knew?

He thinks he can hear Erik's heart beating, fast – it's the strain of what they're doing, obviously, but a bit of Charles can't help wondering if Erik's having the same trouble he's having, and that just makes it worse. It wouldn't take much to find out for sure, a press of his hips and – Charles bites back a groan at the thought of rubbing against Erik, of finding out that he's hard too. 

That is _not_ what they're here for, he tells himself sternly. This is too important to screw up by, well, screwing, though the idea of sex with Erik right now, _right now_ , god, and the feeling of Erik's breath stirring his hair –

It's hopeless, he can't, he just _can't_ any longer. Charles pushes his face against Erik's neck and shoulder and inhales, a long deep glorious lungful of Erik's beautiful familiar scent. He feels Erik tense up, _shit_ , but then Erik's face is pushing down against his, Erik's mouth brushing tentatively against his lips. Such a gentle kiss, it undoes Charles more than anything he could have imagined. He wants to grab and cling and devour but he forces himself to be gentle in return, kissing back so lightly, so softly that he can hardly bear it.

Erik makes a low growling sound and says “It's no good, I can't – ” and Charles's stomach pitches, _no, no, it's not fair, not after all this time_. But before he can say more than “Erik – ”, he's being squeezed so tight and kissed so hard that all the breath goes out of him.

Dizzy with lust and relief and the wave of happiness that's swamping him, he hears the sound of a key in the lock, unmistakable and disastrous: Raven arriving at last. 

_Fuck_. 

They freeze, caught in the kiss, neither of them wanting to break away. Charles lets go of Erik's shoulders, but Erik's still holding him tight, and it's all he can do to keep from burying his face in Erik's neck again. A part of his brain is saying _it's only Raven, she won't mind_ , though he knows that it's stupidly dangerous with Shaw liable to arrive any minute, and –

That was a car pulling up outside, wasn't it?

And that was definitely a window breaking. _Shit_.

“Hello, Raven,” Shaw's voice says.

Erik lets go of Charles and backs away as far as the confined space allows. It's a loss, but also a relief. Charles breathes as deeply as he dares, and tries to focus on what's happening in the hall and not wonder why Erik seems to be fidgeting with something in one of his pockets. He wouldn't have been so stupid as to bring a gun, would he? Jesus. _Concentrate, Xavier._

“What are you doing here?” Raven says. 

She sounds scared, and Charles's stomach knots. Why the fuck did he ever think this was a good idea?

“I've come for the manuscript, of course,” Shaw says. “You didn't really think I would let you have it, did you?”

“You broke in,” she says. “Why did you do that?”

Shaw laughs, and Charles's fists clench. He wants to rush out of the closet right now, but he knows they need to wait.

“A burglar would hardly ring the bell, would he?” Shaw says. “And a burglary is what this has to be, I'm afraid. Otherwise someone might ask the wrong questions, and we can't have that.”

“What makes you think I'll play along?” Raven says. “You stole my work, and George's work, and Moira McTaggert's, and who knows how many others?”

“I don't want to hurt you, Raven,” Shaw says. “I've always wanted what's best for you, you know that.”

“Bullshit!” she snaps. “You don't care what happens to any of us. You're a thief, and I'm going to tell everyone what you did.”

“No, you're not,” Shaw says, and Raven gasps.

Oh Christ, he's got a gun.

Charles's limbs feel heavy, like something in a nightmare; he opens his mouth to shout “No!”, but no sound comes out.

“You disturbed a burglar,” Shaw says. “It's very sad. I promise I'll give one hell of an address at your memorial service. I'm speaking at George's, by the way; I'm sorry you'll miss that.”

“You crummy bastard!” Raven screams, launching herself at him as Erik and Charles burst out from their hiding-place and the gun goes off.

Charles doesn't know what he's grabbed as a weapon, he only knows that he's tackled Shaw to the ground and hit him over the head with it, hard. Shaw stops struggling and goes limp; unconscious, not dead, and right now Charles doesn't know if he's glad or sorry about that.

It's only then that he realizes that Raven's bleeding. 

“Erik, call 911!” He drops whatever it was he hit Shaw with, and hurls himself across the floor to Raven. 

“What do you think I'm doing?” Erik snaps. “Hello? Police and ambulance. There's been a break-in and a shooting at Linden Lane – what's the house number here?”

“141,” Charles says, “141, 143.” He can't even remember now. “Shit. Raven. Raven!”

“I'm OK,” she says, though there's blood streaming down her face. “It's just a graze. He nearly missed me.”

If she died – He's not even going to let himself think about that.

“You brave beautiful _stupid_ girl,” Charles says, groping for a handkerchief to wipe away the blood.

“I'm not stupid,” she says. “And don't call me a girl.”

He mops at the blood, but doesn't speak; he doesn't trust himself to answer her.

“They're on their way,” Erik says. He disappears into the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” Charles yells.

“Looking for something to tie Shaw up with,” Erik says, as if it should be obvious. He comes back with a length of clothesline.

“Good thing one of you's keeping your head,” Raven says, which is most unfair.

The ambulance and the police arrive quickly, though nothing like as quickly as Charles wants them to. The paramedics confirm that Raven's not seriously hurt. They still want to take her in, though. Charles insists on going with her, and Erik says he'll follow in the car once the police have taken Shaw away.

“Stop crying, Charles,” Raven says.

“I've got something in my eye,” Charles lies.

“Yeah, right,” she says. “See you later, Erik.”

“See you both later,” Erik says. “And Charles can cry if he wants to.”

“OK,” Raven says. She closes her eyes as the paramedics lift the stretcher into the ambulance, and Charles climbs in behind.

 

**Chapter 14: All I Ever Waited For**

 

“Seriously, your sister is going to be fine,” the doctor says, not for the first time. 

Charles doesn't look as if he believes it, and Erik's not sure what would convince him. He's obviously still blaming himself for putting Raven in danger, even though she'd never have forgiven him if he'd tried to keep her out of it.

“Charles, will you please go the fuck away?” Raven says. “I want to sleep, and I can't with you brooding at me.”

Erik manages not to laugh, which wouldn't be helpful at this point.

“I'll take him away,” he says. “Come on, Charles.”

Hank's still sitting by Raven's bedside. He looks exhausted, but she's not trying to send _him_ away, Erik notices. The guy must practically be living at the hospital.

“Get on the bed with me,” Raven says to him. “You need to lie down.”

“I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that,” the doctor says. “She'll be out in the morning.”

Erik puts his hand on the back of Charles's neck, rubs his thumb in circles just above the nape. Charles leans backwards into the touch and says “OK, I'm going. Sleep well, you two.”

Hank's too busy arranging himself carefully on the bed next to Raven to say anything, and Raven's already got her eyes closed.

The walk to the parking lot feels too long and too public, but maybe it's just as well. However much Erik wants to jump all over Charles, now is probably not the time to do it.

He's so distracted by trying not to think about jumping all over Charles that he doesn't notice the route he's taking till they're pulling up outside the house in Alexander Street.

“Sorry, I meant to take you home,” he says.

“Obviously a Freudian slip,” Charles says, and starts to laugh.

“Might as well come in, now you're here,” Erik says.

Charles is laughing too much to reply. It wasn't _that_ funny, but he's probably overwrought.

Overwrought and shaky: he's so unsteady walking into the house that Erik practically has to carry him over the threshold and dump him on the couch.

“Thank you,” Charles says weakly. “I think I might be in shock.” His teeth are chattering and he's shivering.

“Looks that way,” Erik says. He grabs a spare blanket from the linen cupboard and drapes it round Charles. “Stay there, I'll get you something to drink.”

Charles is huddled up in the blanket, still shivering, when Erik comes back from the kitchen with two steaming mugs.

“Ribena!” Charles says, surprised. “Where on earth did you find that?”

“There's a British food shop in New York,” Erik says, embarrassed.

He hadn't gone looking for it, but the sight of the bottle in the store window had made him think of Cambridge and that cold January day, and _Charles_ –

The taste brings it back even more vividly: sitting by the fire in the Green Man with Charles teasing him about the Kepler model and his magnificent ass, Charles's fingers playing along his thigh under the table. Charles is remembering it too, judging by the flush across his cheekbones, but he doesn't make a move.

They sit chastely side by side on the couch, drinking the hot blackcurrant drink. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, Erik thinks, setting his empty mug down next to Charles's on the coffee-table. Too many memories –

Charles launches himself at Erik, knocking him flat on his back, clambers on top of him and kisses him frantically.

OK, maybe the Ribena was a good idea after all, Erik thinks. Then Charles bites at his lower lip and starts pulling at his clothes, and he stops thinking.

The blanket's in the way, and they're both wearing far too many layers, and his hands are shaking stupidly as he tries to undo Charles's shirt and unzip his jeans, needing to touch him _right now_ , both of them clumsy and desperate with wanting. Charles's hands on his stomach and thighs and cock feel so good he can hardly breathe, it's too much and he needs more, more _now_.

“Fuck,” he says, pushing Charles's jeans and boxers down and grabbing his gorgeous arse with both hands. He catches his breath at the feel of Charles's skin against his palms, groans and pulls Charles closer, arching up to press against him. Charles moans as their cocks rub together, so good, _fuck_ , like that, yes, _yes_. Erik grips the two of them, thrusts against Charles into the ring of his own hand, and Charles pushes against him and cries out again and again. It's messy and rough and perfect, Charles coming over his hand and his cock and the slip and slide now hot and wet and irresistible till Erik shouts and tenses and comes hard, and they lie collapsed together, Charles's face buried in his shoulder, his hair tickling Erik's lips.

He can't keep them inside any longer, the words he wanted to say seven years ago.

“I love you.”

Charles gives a long shuddering sigh against his neck. “I love you too,” he says. “I always have.”

There's no answer to that, or none that Erik can put in words. He kisses Charles's hair and holds him tight as if he'll never let him go.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Charles buries his face in Erik's neck and breathes and _breathes_ him in. Only a few hours ago, but it seems like a lifetime, pressed so close to Erik in George's hall closet, fighting a losing battle against the longing to do just this... And then the kiss, and Shaw, and Raven, and the gun, and Raven –

He's shaking again as Erik holds him tight and kisses his hair.

“Charles?” Erik says. “ _Charles_.”

It's too much, the strain of the last few hours, the last few days. The tension of the stakeout and the shock of thinking he'd lost Raven, and now the flood of so many emotions. Being here like this with Erik, after so long, and Erik saying it, finally, saying the words Charles never thought he'd live to hear him say...

Charles's throat is tight and his eyes are hurting with tears that need to fall and he's so tired, too tired to fight it any more –

He knows Erik's saying something but he can't take it in – he thinks Erik might possibly have called him _darling_ just now, improbable though that seems. He lets himself be half-dragged, half-carried into the shower, vaguely aware of the water running over him, of Erik's hands on him, unexpectedly gentle as he washes him, and the smell of soap that's faintly like green tea, and the warm rough feeling of the towel as Erik dries him, and then the cool feeling of the sheets against his skin and the softness of pillows, the weight of the blankets and eiderdown as sleep claims him for a time...

When he opens his eyes again he sees Erik propped up on one elbow, looking down at him so intently it makes Charles catch his breath.

“Are you OK?” Erik says.

“I think so,” he says, though he feels as if he must still be dreaming. He's imagined being here so many times, ever since that pre-dawn encounter three weeks ago, and he can't quite believe it's real. He looks around him, trying to take it all in. 

Erik's bedroom is almost Spartan. The few items of furniture are plain and functional – all except for the massive double bed, with its elaborately wrought metal frame. 

Charles feels his face heat as he imagines putting that frame to use, imagines Erik flat on his back with his wrists pushed through the metal loops like handcuffs and his legs over Charles's shoulders, clenching his fists and crying out as Charles thrusts into him... _God_.

“What?” Erik says.

“I like your bed,” Charles says, and grins. “Very much.”

Erik's eyes darken and he slides down to take Charles in his arms. “Good,” he says roughly. 

It's less frantic than the first time, but not by much: the feeling of Erik's naked body pressed full length against him gets Charles hard right away, and as for Erik –

“God, how long have you been lying there like that?” Charles groans, closing his hand around Erik's cock, so hard, and already wet at the tip. He strokes Erik slowly, brushes his thumb over the slit, spreading precome around the head.

Erik's hips jerk and he hisses an indrawn breath. “A while,” he grits out.

The thought of Erik lying there for ages, watching him, _wanting_ him like that, makes heat flare in Charles's stomach and at the base of his spine. He wants to take Erik, claim him, set his mark on him. He kisses and sucks at the side of Erik's neck, scraping it with his teeth and then teasing the spot with his tongue, as Erik curses and gasps and thrusts up into his hand.

“ _Mine_ ,” Charles says. He bites Erik's neck harder, tightens his grip on Erik's cock.

Erik groans and clutches at Charles's shoulders, rakes his nails down Charles's back and wraps his legs around Charles's.

“Say it,” Charles tells him.

“ _Yours_ ,” Erik says. He sounds wrecked, desperate. “Please, Charles, I need – ”

Charles moves his hand faster, harder, and Erik arches his back and cries out and comes, sharp and abrupt, clinging to Charles as if he's drowning.

“Fuck,” Charles gasps, so close now himself that he has spots before his eyes. He thrusts against the curve of Erik's hip once, twice, and that's it, he's coming, groaning helplessly against Erik's mouth and collapsing on top of him.

They lie there panting for a while, too heavy-limbed to move, too breathless to speak.

“Good thing you like this bed,” Erik says eventually. “I'm not planning on letting you out of it any time soon.” 

Charles laughs and kisses him again.

“What time is it?” he asks. It's still dark outside, but they didn't get back here till nearly midnight.

Erik squints at his watch on the bedside table. “Almost three.”

“Ugh,” Charles says. “I hate to say this, but I probably ought to go home. I've got class first thing tomorrow.”

Lying naked in Erik's arms feels so good that he can hardly bear to tear himself away. But he's going to have to, just the same. 

Erik makes a protesting noise and tightens his arms around him. “Stay,” he says.

He smells so _good_ , it's not fair. Charles feels warm and languorous, his blood slow and sweet like honey.

“I'd like to,” he says. “I can't go to class in yesterday's clothes, though.”

In yesterday's clothes and smelling of sex and Erik... He feels as if it's going to be written all over him anyway, and there's part of him that _wants_ that. Wants everyone to know how he spent the night, who he spent it with.

“I could lend you something,” Erik says, half-joking.

Charles groans; the thought of standing in front of a class knowing he's wearing Erik's clothes, knowing _why_ he's wearing them, makes him feel giddy with lust all over again.

“I wouldn't – oh god, I wouldn't be able to string two sentences together,” he says. “I'd never make it through the hour.”

“Really?” Erik says teasingly. 

He kisses Charles on the neck and then behind the ear, which is just cheating – he must _know_ the effect he's having – and caresses his chest, his stomach, his thighs. His hand hovers tantalizingly close to Charles's now very interested cock.

“You seem to like that idea,” Erik says. “Maybe we should try it.”

Charles moans and presses up against Erik's hand. “I'm – oh god, I don't know how I'm going to concentrate as it is, just thinking about this – ”

“This?” Erik says, closing his fingers around Charles's cock and squeezing gently. “Or this?” He begins giving Charles long delicious strokes, twisting his palm over the cock-head.

“Oh,” Charles says. “Aah. Erik, please – ”

“Say you'll stay,” Erik murmurs in his ear.

Charles groans again, surrendering. “Yes,” he says. “God, yes, oh – ”

Erik rolls on top of him and presses his thigh between Charles's as he goes on stroking, pushing Charles down into the mattress. Charles thrusts up into his fist, panting; he's already so close again that he can't see straight.

“ _Yes_ ,” Erik says, keeping that same slow maddening rhythm with his hand as Charles breaks apart and begs and comes harder than he would have thought possible, so soon after the last time.

“Oh god,” Charles says, shuddering through the aftershocks. “Oh.”

Erik holds him tight, rubbing his face against the top of Charles's head. His cock is hard against Charles's thigh, but he's not moving, just lying there still and hot and close, breathing him in.

“You're going to kill me,” Charles says. It's not exactly a complaint.

“I hope not,” Erik says, and gives a twist of his hips that makes Charles see stars and clutch at his shoulders.

Erik raises himself up on his elbows and looks down at him. Charles could spend the rest of his life being looked at like that, though it might make breathing difficult.

“I want to come between your thighs,” Erik says, and Charles swallows hard.

“ _Yes_ ,” he says. God, he wants that too.

Erik slicks himself up and pushes his cock between Charles's thighs, a slow easy slide that makes both of them inhale sharply. Charles is shivery and oversensitive but the pressure of Erik's thrusts against him is so _good_. He pulls Erik closer, fondling and squeezing his backside and clenching his thighs tighter around Erik's cock, until Erik gives a sharp cry and comes all over them both.

Sweaty and triumphant and stuck together, they just about manage to clean themselves up before they fall heavily asleep, locked in one another's arms.

 

**Chapter 15: Must Be Something Scandalous**

 

Charles is amazed he gets through class as well as he does, though he comes close to blanking a couple of times. But Erik's waiting for him outside, and seeing him makes Charles too happy to care.

“I'll have to sneak into one of your lectures,” Erik says with a wicked grin, “see what all the fuss is about.”

“You – don't you _dare_ ,” he says, nearly buckling at the knees. 

If the thought of teaching in Erik's clothes had got him hot and bothered, the thought of trying to keep going with Erik sitting in the audience looking like that...

“I need a cold shower,” Charles says. “ _Another_ cold shower.”

“Or a meeting with Professor Frost?” Erik suggests.

Yep, that would do it. Even the idea of it sobers him up, like a slap in the face. 

“She doesn't teach on Mondays,” he says. “I could see if she's free now – ”

“I'm coming with you,” Erik says firmly.

Charles doesn't argue; he's going to need all the moral support he can get for this one.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Emma has a way of looking at him that takes Charles right back to freshman year; he half-expects her to ask him where his term paper is. The interview is going every bit as badly as he thought it would.

“Professor Shaw's case is in the hands of the police,” Emma says. “It would be premature for the department to make any decision about his future here until that has been resolved.”

“So Raven and the others have to wait months, maybe years, with no acknowledgement of what he did?”

Charles is shaking with fury, but Emma's as calm and unruffled as if they're discussing arrangements for the department's Christmas party.

“You have no evidence that there were others,” she says. “Apart from Moira McTaggert's claims, and I'm afraid Moira always was prone to overreading. It's an occupational hazard in our subject, as you know.”

“Shaw is a lowlife who stole from the dead,” Erik snarls. 

Which is not exactly helpful: Emma's eyes flash, and her expression hardens.

“I'm not entirely sure why you are here, Dr Lehnsherr,” she says. “And I would caution you – both of you – against making allegations that could bring Princeton into disrepute. The university has a right to expect loyalty and discretion from its employees – ”

The tenure blackmail's on the table at last; no less sickening for being entirely predictable. _Keep quiet, or get out_.

“Raven's going to present her work at MLA,” Erik says. “If you don't want half of that paper to be about what Shaw did, you'd better do something about this.”

Emma stares at him as if he's lost his mind. Quite possibly she thinks he has.

“You don't seriously propose to allow a graduate student to ruin her career by that sort of action?” she says.

“Shaw's the one who tried to ruin her career,” Charles says. “And no, that's not the idea at all. The panel chair has already agreed that Professor Logan will speak in place of Professor Falconer.”

Logan has tenure already, and he's not scared of anything or anyone: the man's got a backbone of steel.

“It would still be his word against Shaw's,” Emma says, and the bare surname is the first hint that she's starting to crack.

“Not entirely,” Erik says. He gets out his iPad and opens a media file. 

What the fuck is this? Charles wonders.

“Audio-visual aids can make or break a presentation,” Erik says. “Try this for size.”

The video's a montage of Shaw at his most obnoxious: posing with his latest book jacket, lecturing to a rapt audience, receiving awards, preening in his academic robes. The soundtrack – shit, Charles had no idea Erik had recorded Shaw's exchange with Raven at George's house.

“Sound quality's quite good, isn't it?” Erik says, grinning ferociously.

The video ends on a close-up of Shaw smiling that hideous smile of his, as a shot rings out on the soundtrack.

“Jesus fuck,” Emma says. She puts her hand to her throat as if she's suffocating.

“What do you bet that goes viral?” Erik says. “YouTube, Tumblr, Facebook – so many ways to share stuff these days.”

_Close your mouth, Xavier, don't just sit there gaping like a codfish._

“You missed a great career as a film-maker,” Charles says.

Erik grins his ferocious grin again. “Maybe I'll take it up,” he says. “If academic life turns out to be a dead end.”

Emma's still choking; Charles feels slightly sorry for her, but Erik clearly doesn't at all. If anything, he seems to be enjoying himself even more. 

Charles tells himself he really should _not_ find that hot.

“What do you want me to do?” Emma says eventually.

Charles exhales, a long ragged sigh of relief. “Issue a public statement,” he says. “Acknowledging George and Raven's discovery. Saying the department has been made aware that Shaw announced it as his, but that full credit belongs to George and Raven.”

He pulls the draft out of his breast pocket and unfolds it, lays it on her perfectly empty desk. “This would do.”

She looks as if she might be about to throw up. 

“OK,” she says, after a long pause.

“We can wait,” Erik says, gesturing to her computer workstation.

Maybe she doesn't do much of her own typing these days, or maybe it's reluctance that makes her slow. But she copies the statement, makes three phone calls that clearly leave the Dean of School, Vice-President and President as thunderstruck as the video left _her_ , and then posts the statement to the Department homepage.

Erik emails the link to his entire addressbook, which Charles notes with interest includes journalists at the New York Times and the Washington Post.

“Good idea,” Charles says. His own addressbook has some useful international contacts from his Oxford days.

Emma's phone rings. 

“Frost,” she snaps. “Yes, the department has issued a statement. No, we have no further comment to make at this time... That is a matter for the police, and you don't seriously expect me to comment on it. Do you? No, I thought not. Goodbye.”

She puts the phone down, a little harder than necessary.

“Right,” she says. “Happy now?”

Charles nods.

“Good,” she says. “Then fuck off.”

 

**Epilogue: And Written Very Long Ago**

 

Erik's never been in the bar in the Graduate College before. Everyone calls it the D-bar, but its full name is apparently Debasement. Presumably because it's in the basement. Graduate humour, you can't beat it... It's technically a private club, so Raven and Hank have to sign them in, and they both have to show proof of age, which in his case is just absurd, though he doesn't think Charles looks any older than when they first met.

Raven's head is still bandaged, and she's not drinking alcohol, but she's been out of hospital for a couple of days now and she seems to be all right. Hank stays close to her, his arm protectively around her shoulders. 

“I wish I'd been there,” she says, when Charles has finished recounting their interview with Emma Frost. 

“Next time, don't get shot,” Erik says.

“Erik!” Charles says, but Raven laughs, and it's OK. 

Somewhere along the line she stopped bristling at him, or he stopped bristling at her, or they both realized Charles mattered more than whatever differences they'd had. They're never going to be best friends, but they get along just fine.

“Man, that was sneaky,” Sean says admiringly. “Just as well you guys don't suffer from claustrophobia.”

“Mm,” Erik says, remembering the strain of being so close to Charles and aching to touch him, to kiss him...

“Oh god,” Raven says. “Please don't tell me you two were making out in George's closet.”

“OK, we won't,” Charles says, and grins.

“Seriously,” Raven says. “Brain bleach now, please.”

“I _told_ you it would work,” Hank says smugly.

Told her what would work? Erik feels a sudden chill of doubt.

“Jesus, Raven, you didn't try that on him too?” Charles says.

“Try what?” Erik asks, as the chill spreads wider.

“Tell me,” Charles says sternly.

Raven shuffles and says, “OK, we did sort of – deliberately talk so he'd overhear, pretending you'd told me you were in love with him. But you _are_.”

“I know that!” Charles says. 

“And I found your poem,” Raven says, pulling a sheet of paper out of her bag.

Charles yelps and makes a grab for the paper. “Don't you dare, Raven, it's terrible – ”

“The alchemy of love,” she teases him. “I think it's kind of cute.”

“Fuck off,” Charles says, going red.

“Wait, what – was that not true?” Erik says.

“It's not true that I told Raven I felt that way about you,” Charles says. “But she's right: I do. I always have.” 

He looks at Erik so lovingly that the cold feeling melts clean away.

“I guess I won't need to use this after all,” Hank says, brandishing a suspiciously familiar and crumpled sheet from a yellow legal pad.

“Where did you get that?” Erik demands.

“It was stuck in your Kepler model,” Hank says, and grins. “Your handwriting's terrible, by the way; it took Sean and Raven hours to decipher.”

“That was private!” Erik says.

“What is it?” Charles asks, craning over to see.

“It seems to be a love letter,” Hank says, deadpan.

“You are going to regret this, so much,” Erik tells him.

“Is that for me?” Charles says. “Thank you.” He pockets the letter, to general booing from the young ones.

“You haven't seen my Kepler model, have you?” Erik says, turning back to Charles.

“Your Alcoholic Solar System? No, I haven't. Would you like to show it to me?” Charles says, looking extremely pleased with himself.

“I would,” Erik says. “Very much. You'll be glad to know it's in full working order.”

 

The memory of what followed that increasingly drunken demonstration in his office can still make Erik blush, weeks later, in the middle of a panel at MLA, hearing Raven quote Dante's line about “the love that moves the sun and the other stars.” 

Charles puts his hand on Erik's thigh and Erik puts his hand over Charles's and leaves it there as they listen to Logan and Raven talk about the poetry of the moon and the madness of desire.

“Ficino believed that love held the keys to the universe,” Raven says. “He believed that love was the basis of magic. He wrote that 'The work of magic is the attraction of one thing by another because of a certain affinity of nature.' We are only just beginning to understand how far that idea of love might extend.” 

It's true about him and Charles, too; they're only just beginning, or beginning again. But Erik can't imagine anything he wants more from the years ahead than for them to find out together how far their love can go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles: ch. 12 from All You Ever Do Is Walk Away; ch. 13 from The Death of Ferdinand De Saussure; ch. 14 from The Sun Goes Down And The World Goes Dancing; ch. 15 from You Must Be Out Of Your Mind; Epilogue from The Book of Love.


End file.
